UUSb    LIBKAKY 


PICTURES   OF   COUNTRY   LIFE. 


BY  ALICE  GARY, 

AUTHOB  OF   "  CLOVER2JOOK,"    "  MAEKIED   NOT  MATED,"   ETC.,  ETC. 


NEW   YORK: 
PUBLISHED  BY  KURD  AND  HOUGHTON. 

1866. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1859,  by 
DERBY   &    JACKSON, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States,  for  the  Southern  District  of 
New  York. 


CAMBRIDGE:  PRINTED  BY  H.  o.  HOUGHTON  AND  COMPART. 


CONTENTS. 


PAOB 
LEM    LYON, 7 

PASSAGES  FROM  THE  MARRIED  LIFE  OF  ELEANOR  HOLMES, 34 

THE  OUTCAST, 55 

HASTT  WODRS  AND  THEIR  APOLOGT 76 

SARAH  MORRIS, 125 

THE  HOUSE  WITH  TWO  FRONT  DOORS, 151 

UNCLE  JOHN'S  STORY, 174 

MAKING  THE  CHILDREN  SOMETHING, 187 

THR  APPLE  CUTTING, 240 

ELIZA  ANDERSON, 261 

MRS.  WALDEN'S  CONFIDANT, 290 

THE  COUNTRY  COUSIN, 809 

AN  OLD  MAID'S  STORY 336 


LEM     LYON. 


THE  rain  had  fallen  slowly  and  continuously  since  midnight 
— and  it  was  now  about  noon,  though  a  long  controversy 
among  the  hands  had  decided  the  time,  finally  to  be  three 
o'clock  :  no  one  among  the  dozen  of  them  had  a  watch,  except 
Lem  Lyon,  the  most  ill-natured,  the  least  accommodating  of 
all  the  work-hands  on  the  farm,  and  no  man  ventured  to  inquire 
of  him,  for  he  was  more  than  ordinarily  unamiable  to-day,  and 
lay  on  the  barn-floor  apart  from  his  work-mates,  with  a  bundle 
of  oat-straw  for  his  pillow,  and  his  hat  pulled  over  his  eyes, 
taking  no  part  in  the  discussion  about  the  time,  and  affecting 
to  hear  nothing  of  it. 

One  after  another  stepped  forth,  and  essayed  to  see  his 
shadow,  but  in  vain — one  after  another  looked  up  at  the  sky, 
and  guessed  at  the  whereabouts  of  the  sun,  but  it  was  only 
guessing,  for  many  a  day  has  looked  brighter  after  sunset  than 
did  that  one  at  high  moon. 

There  was  a  half-holiday  among  the  men,  and  as  it  had 
happened  to  fall  the  day  after  Sunday,  it  was  less  welcome 
than  as  if  it  had  brought  a  log-rolling,  brush-burning,  or  stone 
quarrying  with  it,  for  people  little  used  to  leisure  are  apt  to 
find  it  lying  heavily  on  their  hands. 

There  had  been  some  coarse  jesting  in  the  morning,  which 

T 


8  LEM    LTON. 

had  gradually  subsided  into  more  sober  talk,  and  ultimately  to 
silence,  broken  only  by  yawns  and  wonders  about  the  time  of 
day.  The  cattle  turning  their  faces  from  the  rain  and  cowering 
beneath  the  sheds,  had  been,  in  imagination,  severally  slaugh- 
tered, and  divided  into  hide,  hoof  and  horns — the  amount  of 
money  each  one  might  be  turned  into  reckoned  up,  and  there 
was  nothing  more  interesting  to  be  said  about  them.  Corn- 
cobs had  been  thrown  successively  at  the  daring  roosters  that 
ventured  out  from  beneath  the  barn-sill,  and  they  were  done 
with,  having  been  fain,  after  a  little  scanty  picking,  to  settle 
back  in  their  dusty  hollows,  and  wait  with  shut  eyes  for  their 
dripping  plumage  to  recover  its  wonted  brilliancy. 

"  By  thunder  !"  exclaimed  Bill  Franklin,  dashing  a  pitchfork 
at  a  colt  that  had  ventured  to  put  his  fore  feet  on  to  the  barn- 
floor,  partly  to  shelter  himself  from  the  storm,  and  partly  to 
steal  from  the  mow  a  mouthful  of  hay — "  I,  for  my  part  bleve 
I'll  roll  up  my  sleeves  and  go  to  grubbing  stumps,  it's  a 
darnation  sight  easier  than  this  ere  kind  of  a  way  of  worryiu' 
out  the  time — what  d'you  say,  boys  ?" 

"  I'm  with  you,"  said  Jake  Wilkinson,  "  guess  we  can 
stand  it  long  as  the  rain  can,  can't  we,  Bill  ?"  And  having 
shouldered  crowbars  and  grubbing  hoes,  amid  a  good  deal  of 
laughter,  the  two  men  took  their  way  resolutely  to  the  clearing. 

Joseph  Baruet  presently  climbed  to  the  hay-mow  to  read 
over  his  first  love-letter  for  the  twentieth  time — muse  on  it  in 
secret,  and  endeavor  to  compose  an  answer,  which  he  did  after 
his  own  crude  fashion.  But  what  matters  the  fashion  of  the 
speech,  the  sweet  meaning  is  all  the  same  whether  the  words 
be,  "I  dreamed  of  you  last  night,"  or  "  I  will  buy  you  a  calico 
frock  to-morrow." 


LEM    LTOK.  9 

Others  followed  the  two  energetic  leaders  before  long,  and  at 
length  only  four  of  the  hands  were  left  in  the  barn.  Joseph 
Barnet,  cutting  the  initial  letters  of  his  sweetheart's  name  on  the 
weather-boards,  with  many  flourishes  ;  Lem  Lyon,  with  hat 
over  his  face,  and  wrapped  in  less  pleasant  contemplations  ; 
and  Peter  and  Dan  Wright,  brothers,  and  the  oldest  hands  on 
the  farm.  They  had  been  farm-hands  all  their  lives,  and 
neither  had  ever  owned  or  expected  ever  to  own  a  foot  of  land 
— they  were  contented  with  hard  work,  did  not  know  there 
was  anything  better,  and  I  am  not  sure  that  there  is.  Peter 
was  shelling  corn  very  quietly  in  the  trough  of  the  weaned 
calf,  that  was  tied  in  the  stable  adjoining  the  open  barn-floor, 
and  Dan  had  taken  off  his  shoes  and  sat  on  the  door-sill — the 
slowly  dripping  rain  falling  upon  his  naked  feet,  when  a  sound 
like  a  stifled  sob  caused  them  both  to  look  round — there  lay 
Lem  with  his  hat  over  his  eyes,  and  nothing  else  was  to  be  seen. 

"  What  was  that  noise  ?"  asked  Peter,  putting  his  arm 
about  the  calf's  neck. 

"  I  don't  know,"  answered  Dan,  as  he  drew  one  foot  up 
beneath  him,  "  I  thought  I  heard  a  kind  of  crying,  but  I  reckon 
it  was  an  optical  imagination — do  you  bleve  in  such  things  ?" 

Lem  Lyon  began  to  snore  very  loud,  and  the  two  brothers 
innocently  concluded  that  their  previous  impression  was  wrong, 
for  both  had  at  first  supposed  the  noise  proceeded  from  him — 
a  more  suspicious  nature  might  have  thought  the  sleep  an 
affectation. 

"  Well,"  said  Peter,  leaving  the  calf  munching  at  his  corn, 
and  seating  himself  beside  his  younger  brother  on  the  sill  of 
the  barn,  "  I  thought  t'other  night,  the  time  we  had  the  husking 

bee,  that  I  see  one  of  them  ere  ghostly  critters  you  talk  about." 

1* 


10  LEM    LYON. 


"  You  don't  say  !"  inquired  Dan,  "  where  mought  she  a-been? 
and  did  you  feel  skeery  ?" 

"  Well,  as  to  being  skeered,  I  ginerally  wait  till  I'm  hurt, 
'cause  you  know  there's  no  use  wasting  material  of  no  kind  — 
but  to  own  the  truth,  I  did  sort  a  hisitate." 

"  You  don't  say  ?"  ejaculated  Dan,  again. 

"  It  was  getting  well  on  toward  midnight,  I  reckon,  a 
moughty  moonshiny  night,  if  you  mind  ;  I  had  taken  the  cider 
jug  to  go  to  the  house  and  tip  a  leetle  might  of  whisky  into  it 
—  the  dry  cornblades  was  rustling  on  both  sides  of  the  lane,  and 
the  owls  in  old  Dick  Wolverton's  woods  were  howling  kind  of 
lonesome  like,  but  I  was  more  listening  to  Lem  than  to  the 
owls  —  for  he  was  husking  up  on  the  highest  scaffold,  you  mind, 
and  singing  a  melancholy  ditty  to  himself  like  —  it  was  as  good 
to  hear  as  a  novel,  coming  over  the  noises  of  the  winds  —  so  I 
walked  slow  along,  thinking  of  the  times  when  my  hair  was 
black  as  yourn,  Dan,  and  I  could  leap  a  six-barred  gate  with 
the  best  of  them,  for  there  was  something  in  Lem's  song  that 
carried  me  away  back  and  back,  I  didn't  hardly  know  where  —  - 
walking  slow  along,  I  was,  and  just  as  I  got  so  near  to  the 
bars  that  I  mought  have  touched  them  a'most  with  my  hand, 
what  do  you  'spose  I  saw  ?" 

"  One  of  the  critters,  I  reckon,  for  a  lively  imagination  like 
yourn,  Pete,  is  dreadful  oncertain  to  be  depended  on,  especially 
after  drinking  cider." 

"  No  !  it  wasn't  a  critter  —  that  is,  it  was  no  animal  critter, 
so  to  speak.  It  wasn't  white,  and  it  wasn't  black  ;  it  was  kind 
of  grey  like,  so  to  speak  ;  but  the  first  I  see,  and  the  most  I  see 
was  two  bright  shining  eyes,  and  then  gradually  the  operition 
took  shape  like,  and  I  see  it  was  a  human  critter." 


LEM    LYON.  11 

"  You  don't  say  !     Who  mought  she  a  been  ?" 

"  That  ere  now  is  just  what  I  want  you  for  to  find  out.  She 
don't  belong  no  whar  in  this  section — 'cause  I  never  see  her  till 
that  ere  time  I  tell  you  of.  She  was  apparently  carried  away 
by  Lena's  singing,  and  forgotful,  so  to  speak,  of  things  in 
gineral,  and  when  I  come  of  a  suddent,  her  face  turned  as  red 
as  a  rosy — and  she  said  something  in  moughty  purty  words,  I 
can't  string  'em  up  as  she  did,  but  it  was,  so  to  speak,  like  as  if 
she  had  said  she  hoped  she  was  not  doing  any  harm.  I  told  her 
'  no,  mem,'  as  soon  as  I  see  that  she  wasn't  a  ghost ;  but  says  I 
to  her,  at  first,  says  I,  '  I  thought,  mem,  you  was  a  ghost,'  and 
then  it  was  after  that  that  I  says  to  her,  says  I,  '  no,  mem, 
your  doing  no  harm,  fur  as  I  see.'  And  then  says  she  to  me, 
says  she,  '  you  see  all  the  harm  I'm  doing,  just  listening  here 
to  that  man  sing,'  and  then  she  says,  says  she,  'it  kind  of 
sounds  like  a  voice  I  used  to  hear,'  and  then  she  hesitated  like, 
and  then  she  hugged  her  baby  up  moughty  close,  and  turned 
and  went  away  kind  of  moaning  to  it  like." 

"  Why  didn't  you  follor  her,  and  see  whar  she  mought  a 
gone  to  ?"  asked  Dan,  eagerly. 

Lena  was  now  wide  awake,  and  with  his  head  propped  on  his 
hand,  listening  attentively. 

"  I  did  foller  her,  'cause  thinks  says  I  to  myself,  nobody 
knows  what  nobody  else  is  till  they  have  found  'em  out  by  close 
watching — so  I  follered  along  kind  a  sly  like,  she  never  mous- 
trusting  that  I  was  anywhar  a-near,  and  when  she  got  along 
just  in  the  ege  of  old  Wolverton's  big  woods,  she  sot  right 
down  on  the  ground,  and  I  reckon  you  mought  a-heard  her  a 
crying  clar  hur  1" 

"  What  business  had  you  to  pursue  a  woman  as  if  she  was 


12  LEM    LTOK. 

game  ?"  exclaimed  Lem,  coming  forward  with  menacing  ges- 
tures. "  I  hate  such  idle  curiosity — but  what  became  of  her  at 
last  ?" 

The  brothers  did  not  remark  that  his  last  question  contra- 
dicted his  assertion,  and  Pete,  who  was  used  to  subserviency 
to  Lemuel,  proceeded  good  naturedly  to  tell  all  he  knew  about 
the  woman,  which,  in  truth,  was  little  more.  It  contained  one 
or  two  hints,  however,  upon  which  Lemuel  seized  with  avidity. 

It  appeared  like  she  never  would  have  done  crying,  Peter 
said,  but  at  last  her  baby,  it  sot  up,  and  then  she  apparently 
forgot  whatever  it  mought  have  been  that  was  troubling  her- 
self, and  hugging  it  with  such  noises  as  birds  make  to  their 
little  ones,  she  took  off"  right  through  the  woods  toward  old 
Dick  "Wolverton's  house,  where,  to  the  best  of  Peter's  belief, 
she  had  been  spinning  part  of  the  past  summer.  He  remem- 
bered to  have  seen  a  baby  tied  in  a  high  chair,  paddling  against 
one  of  the  garret  windows  of  old  Dick's  house,  and  of  hearing 
a  wheel  at  the  same  time,  and  he  knew  Mrs.  Wolvertou's 
youngest  son  was  big  enough  to  go  sparking.  Old  Wolvtr- 
ton's,  he  said,  was  a  moughty  hard  place  for  the  gal,  what- 
ever kind  of  a  lark  she  mought  be. 

"  What  need  you  care  who  or  what  the  woman  is  ?"  said 
Lemuel  ;  "  I  don't  see  as  she  is  anything  to  you." 

"  You  speak  like  as  if  she  mought  be  to  you,  peers  to  me," 
remarked  Peter,  quietly. 

"  I  do  ?"  And  Lem  went  on  to  say  he  did  not  see  how  that 
could  have  been,  for  that  as  all  knew,  he  hated  women  even 
more  than  men,  if  that  were  possible  ;  and  he  carelessly  added 
that  she  probably  was  a  relative  of  the  Wolvertons. 

"  No,  she  arn't  that,"  said  Peter,  "  she  arn't  of  their  turn, 


T/EM     LTON.  18 

no  ways — she  was  pleasant  and  soft  spoke,  so  to  speak,  and  if 
you  mind,  the  Wolvertons  are  red-haired,  the  whole  tribe 
of  them,  and  her  hair  was  as  black  as  a  raven." 

Lem  moved  uneasily,  and  Peter  went  on  to  say  that  he 
should  not  be  surprised  if  he  yet  found  out  something  about 
the  stray  lark,  for  that  he  had  picked  up  a  handkerchief  where 
she  sot  so  long  on  the  ground,  "  and  I  see  by  the  moonshine," 
he  concluded,  "  that  it  was  marked  with  sampler  letters  in  one 
corner." 

Lem  listened  with  painful  interest  now,  and  Dan  inquired 
with  a  more  stupid  curiosity,  "  What  mought  the  sampler  let- 
ters a  been,  Pete,  do  you  mind  ?" 

Peter  could  not  make  out  the  letters  by  the  moonlight,  he 
said,  but  he  had  put  the  handkerchief  in  his  Sunday  hat,  and 
if  he  did  not  disremember,  he  would  look  at  it  before  he  went 
to  bed. 

Lem  drew  his  hat  suddenly  over  his  face,  and  muttering  a 
curse  upon  the  weather,  concluded,  as  he  glanced  towards  the 
house,  with  the  wish  that  women  and  children  had  a  world 
made  especially  for  themselves. 

In  vain  the  two  brothers  defended  the  gentler  sex  with  elo- 
quent eulogies.  Lem  was  unmoved — grew  in  fact  more  denun- 
ciatory, and  ended  by  heaping  profanity  on  denunciation. 

"  Well,"  said  Dan,  "  Pve  got  no  woman,  and  I  never  calcu- 
late I  shall  have,  but  the  good  it  does  me  to  go  whar  women 
folks  are  is  immense.  To  see  them  in  meeting,  bright  as  a  row 
of  pinks  a  sitting  on  the  benches,  does  me  more  good  than  the 
preaching." 

"  Their  smiling,"  said  Pete,  "iles  up  a  man's  heart,  like,  so 
to  speak,"  and  having  laid  this  cap-sheaf  upon  the  stack  of 


14  LEM    LTON. 

his  previous  eloquence,  he  turned  his  pale,  little  eyes  upon 
Lemuel's  dark  ones  almost  compassionately. 

"  Well,  God  bless  the  whole  race  of  women,  and  all  the 
babies  to  boot,"  cried  Lem,  in  a  tone  which  indicated  anything 
but  a  blessing  mood,  and  buttoning  his  coat  hastily,  he  went 
down  the  lane  with  such  strides  as  would  soon  have  taken  him 
across  the  continent. 

"  That  is  a  curious  chap,"  said  Dan,  when  Lem  was  out  of 
hearing.  "  I'll  be  blamed  if  I  don't  bleve  that  some  gal  has 
some  time  give  him  the  mitten,  and  that's  why  he  hates  'em 
so." 

"  If  I  mought  be  allowed  to  say  just  what  I  think,"  mused 
Peter,  smoothing  his  grey  hair,  "  I  should  say  that  that  ere  same 
Lemuel  Lyou  had  not  allers  done  what  was  right  by  women. 
Didn't  you  mind  how  he  chewed  his  beard  and  frowned  when 
he  said  God  bless  'em  ;  mind,  I  tell  you,  he  is  a  man,  proud 
and  handsome  as  he  is,  that  is  onsatisfied  with  himself." 

"  Shaw  !  Pete,  you're  getting  childish,"  replied  Dan,  who 
was  younger  than  his  brother  by  seven  years,  and  running  up 
the  ladder,  he  joined  Joseph  Barnet  on  the  hay-mow,  where  he 
was  still  musing  on  his  love-letter,  and  composing  an  answer 
which  did  but  imperfect  justice  to  his  feelings.  He  had  told 
his  beloved  that  her  letter  was  received,  and  that  he  had  taken 
his  pen  in  hand  to  reply — that  he  was  well  at  present — that 
all  the  hands  were  well  at  present,  and  that  he  had  no  news 
that  could  interest  her  at  present,  when  Peter  joined  him,  and 
inquiring  whether  there  were  any  hens'  nests  on  the  mow, 
dragged  him  down  to  the  dead  level  of  ordinary  life.  Ah, 
Joseph,  it  is  only  for  stolen  moments  that  we  are  permitted  to 
flourish  the  initials  of  our  sweethearts  upon  the  weather-boards 


LEM    LTON.  15 

of  our  barns,  or  otherwhere — for  the  most  part,  we  must  work 
and  be  tired  and  heart-sick. 

Toward  night  the  clouds  lifted  in  the  west,  and  left  a  breadth 
of  blue  sky  above  the  wet  tree  tops  ;  and  the  winds  made 
noises  in  the  woods,  especially  in  Dick  Wolverton's  woods,  that 
were  indicative  of  coming  winter.  The  hands  were  chilled 
through  and  through,  and,  impatient  of  supper  time,  hurried 
toward  the  barn  when  first  the  sunset  held  up  its  red  signal. 
They  had  not  reached  it,  however,  when  the  tin  horn  sounded 
its  welcome  summons.  There  was  a  good  deal  of  pretended 
detention,  and  when  the  chores  were  done,  a  good  deal  more 
idle  lingering  about  the  barn  doors  ;  so  that  the  chickens  were 
crowding  the  roosts,  and  the  windows  of  the  farmhouse  all 
a-blaze  (they  had  been  close  shut  the  preceding  night,  and 
darkened  all  the  day  past),  when  Peter,  a  wise  smile  playing 
among  the  wrinkles  of  his  cheeks,  led  thither  the  rough  troop, 
shy  and  bashful  as  so  many  girls — Joseph  in  the  rear,  most 
shy  and  bashful  of  all.  The  supper  was  laid  in  holiday  style, 
and  the  walls  decorated  with  red  and  yellow  maple  boughs,  in 
honor  of  the  little  immortal  that  had  that  day  taken  up  her 
inheritance  of  mortality. 

There  was  whisky  as  well  as  tea — plumcake  as  well  as 
bread,  and  the  "good  Mr.  Mayfield,  master  of  the  house  and 
hands,  broke  through  social  distinctions,  and  spiced  the  enter- 
tainment with  many  a  pleasant  story.  Peter  proposed  the 
health  of  the  new-comer,  and  on  glancing  down  the  table  to 
see  whether  he  had  unanimous  sympathy,  discovered  that  Lena 
was  absent.  There  was  a  general  expression  of  wonder,  and 
of  uneasiness  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Mayfield,  for  he  was  used  to 
consider  Lemuel  his  best  hand,  notwithstanding  his  surly  moods. 


16  LEM    LTON. 

The  horn  was  blown  again,  so  loud  that  the  hills  sent  back  the 
echoes,  but  no  echo  did  Lemuel  return — he  had  not  partaken 
of  food  since  breakfast,  and  no  one  could  imagine  what  could 
detain  him,  unless  he  had  been  overtaken  by  a  fit,  or  some 
other  terrible  accident.  The  table  broke  up  in  confusion,  and 
the  hands  dispersed  in  different  directions  about  the  farm  in 
search  of  the  missing  man. 

Peter  instinctively  took  the  path  which  led  to  the  Wolverton 
woods,  and  he  it  was  who  found  the  lost  man.  Nothing  had 
happened — he  had  heard  the  horn,  he  said,  and  should  have 
gone  to  the  house  if  he  had  required  anything  to  eat — he  was 
sorry  the  hands  were  such  a  set  of  fools  as  to  waste  their 
strength  in  looking  after  him — for  his  part  he  did  not  care  a 
darn  where  any  of  them  went,  and  did  not  wish  them  to  care 
for  him  any  more — he  hoped  he  could  take  care  of  himself. 

"  I  wish  that  ere  young  man  was  not  so  kind  of  onsartin 
like,"  said  Peter,  when  he  found  himself  among  the  hands  again. 
"  Sometimes  I  think  his  heart  is  froze,  so  to  speak,  and  if  some- 
thing could  only  thaw  it  out,  it  would  be  as  good  as  any  of  our 
hearts." 

"  Whar  mought  he  a  been  ? — why,  it's  as  cold  as  thunder  I" 
said  Dan,  shivering  and  buttoning  his  coat. 

Then  Peter  told  how  he  was  found  sitting  like  as  if  he  was 
moonstruck,  so  to  speak,  on  a  pile  of  dry  stones  that  had  once 
been  a  lime-kiln — his  hat  on  the  ground  beside  him,  and  no  sign 
of  a  coat  on.  "  Whatever  mought  have  made  him  so,"  con- 
cluded Peter,  "  I  don't  know,  but  he  was  right  onsociable 
with  me,  so  to  speak — never  see  him  more  onclined  to  be  to 
himself." 

The  spirit  of  hilarity  which  had  been  subdued  by  the  fear  that 


LEM    LTOST.  17 

some  evil  had  befallen  him,  now  arose  with  redoubled  buoyancy ; 
and  there  was  wrestling  and  racing,  swapping  of  knives  and  trad- 
ing of  hats — rude  jesting,  some  of  it  upon  women,  I  am  sorry 
to  say,  profanity,  rising  more  from  recklessness  than  wickedness 
I  am  glad  to  say  ;  and  when  at  a  late  hour  the  hands  went  to 
bed,  each  one  felt  himself  considerably  richer  than  when  he  got 
up  in  the  morning. 

"  I  say,  Pete,"  whispered  Dan,  as  the  brothers  were  about 
retiring,  "  whars  that  handkerchief  you  was  talking  about  to 
day  ?" 

Peter  took  down  the  Sunday  hat  from  its  peg  in  the  wall, 
looked  inside  of  it — uttered  an  exclamation  of  surprise — turned 
it  round  and  over,  thumping  it  on  the  sides  and  top,  but  nothing 
except  a  Bible,  hymn-book,  pocket-book,  red  silk  handkerchief, 
and  two  or  three  cigars  fell  out  of  it. 

"  I'm  sartin,"  he  said,  at  last,  slowly  and  soberly,  moving  his 
eyes  searchingly  about  the  room,  and  holding  up  the  empty  hat, 
"  that  I  put  that  ere  little  squar  of  linen  in  thar,  and  no  whar 
else !" 

Notwithstanding  this  conviction,  he  prolonged  the  search 
for  half  an  hour,  but  without  success — at  the  end  of  that 
time  he  hung  up  the  Sunday  hat  in  its  proper  place,  and  with  a 
soliloquy  on  the  onsartainty  of  human  evidence,  went  to  bed — 
no  suspicion  linked  with  Lena's  curiosity  finding  any  room  to 
harbor  in  his  innocent  soul. 

For  some  days  after  the  events  recorded,  Lena  was  unusually 
silent  and  moody.  If  he  spoke  at  all  it  was  sourly  and  sarcas- 
tically— he  selected  the  work  that  was  hardest,  and  in  fact 
seemed  to  take  pleasure  in  imposing  tasks  upon  himself  that 
nobody  else  could  or  would  perform.  Often  in  the  chill  rainy 


18  LKM    LYON. 

days  he  would  work  all  day  long  without  his  coat,  and  at  night, 
instead  of  joining  the  circle  about  the  kitchen  fire,  he  would  stray 
away  by  himself,  and  it  was  noticed  that  he  generally  took  the 
path  toward  the  Wolverton  woods.  Peter  said  he  must  be  fond 
of  coon  hunting — what  else  could  take  him  thar  of  nights  that 
were  cold  enough  to  freeze  a  bar,  so  to  speak.  And  Peter, 
chiefly  owing  to  his  wrinkles  and  grey  hair,  was  conceded  to  be 
the  wisest  of  all  the  hands,  so  it  was  settled  that  Lem  was  fond 
of  coon  hunting,  and  there  was  no  more  speculation  or  won- 
derment about  it. 

It  was  the  pleasant  custom  of  Mr.  Mayfield  to  give  a  frolic 
to  his  hands  two  or  three  times  in  the  year,  and  the  season  was 
now  come,  the  corn  being  gathered,  for  one  of  these  happy 
occasions.  There  was  to  be  a  fine  supper,  and  dancing — all  the 
young  women  for  seven  miles  round  were  invited,  and  Bill  Frank- 
lin, Jake  Wilkinson  and  Jo  Barnet  had  "  been  at  charges  " 
for  new  white  cotton  shirts,  and  "  fine  dancing  pumps,"  and 
some  of  the  other  hands  had  provided  themselves  with  new 
boots,  and  other  articles,  specially  designed  for  the  occasion  ; 
but  Lem  made  never  a  call  upon  shoemaker  or  tailor — frolics 
might  do  well  enough  for  women  and  children,  but  for  his  part 
he  hated  them. 

Since  the  conversation  which  took  place  on  the  barn-sill,  he 
had  manifested  a  consideration  for  Peter,  relieving  him  of 
hard  chores  sometimes,  and  had  indicated  a  disposition  to  culti- 
vate his  acquaintance  never  shown  before.  He  had  inquired  of 
Peter,  on  one  occasion,  if  he  knew  where  he  would  be  likely  to 
get  some  flax-thread,  he  wanted  some  to  mend  his  saddle-girth, 
and  he  could  not  find  any  strong  enough  at  the  stores. 

It  might  be  had,  Peter  thought,  of  some  of  the  neighbor- 


LEM    LTOK.  19 

women,  aud  Lemuel  then  suggested  that  if  Peter  would  be  so 
good  as  to  make  inquiry  he  would  be  doing  a  great  favor,  and 
he  named  Mrs.  Wolverton  as  the  person  likeliest  of  all  he  knew, 
to  have  the  thread. 

Peter  did  the  errand  willingly,  for  not  one  of  the  hands  but 
was  glad  to  oblige  Lemuel — all  felt  with  Peter  that  his  heart  was 
frozen,  and  if  it  could  only  be  thawed  it  would  be  a  very  good 
sort  of  heart.  When  Peter  returned  he  found  Lem  sitting  on  a 
log  in  the  edge  of  the  woods,  and  would  have  thought  he  was 
waiting  for  him,  had  not  he  said  expressly  that  he  just  happened 
to  be  there — his  first  inquiry  was,  not  whether  Peter  had  got  the 
thread,  but  whom  he  had  seen,  and  when  informed  that  he  had 
only  seen  Mrs.  Wolverton,  he  was  further  inquisitive  to  know 
whether  she  had  mentioned  anybody  ;  Peter  thought  not,  and 
Lemuel  then  remarked,  carelessly,  that  he  did  not  know  but 
that  she  might  have  said  something  about  that  ghostly  woman 
that  lived  with  her. 

No,  he  neither  saw  the  woman  nor  heard  mention  of  her. 
Upon  hearing  this,  Lemuel  laughed  confusedly,  and  said,  that 
since  Peter  told  the  ghost  story,  he  had  not  thought  of  her  till 
now.  It  occurred  to  Peter  that  it  was  a  little  strange  Lemuel 
never  once  thought  of  the  thread. 

Once  or  twice  on  Peter's  return  from  church,  Lemuel  had  met 
him  by  the  merest  accident,  and  inquired,  simply  for  the  sake 
of  saying  something,  Peter  supposed,  whom  he  had  seen  at 
meeting,  and  whether  any  one  who  looked  like  a  ghost.  After 
these  manifestations  of  humanity  and  familiarity,  it  is  no  wonder 
Peter  was  disappointed  at  Lemuel's  betiavior  in  view  of  the 
grand  frolic. 

"  Of  course  you  will  outshine  them  all  1"  he  ventured  to  say, 


20  LEM    LTON. 

one  day,  "  for  the  girls  will  look  their  prettiest,  and  all  have 
their  eyes  upon  you."  "  I  wonder  if  all  men  are  fools  and  dnpes 
to  the  last  ?"  soliloquized  Lemuel,  and  he  made  no  other 
answer. 

He  had  a  habit  of  looking  about  him  in  a  startled  way,  as  if 
in  expectation  of  some  unwelcome  visitor,  and  this  peculiarity 
grew  upon  him  of  late,  so  much  that  Peter  said  Lem  reminded 
him  of  a  wild  beast  that  had  once  been  in  a  trap,  and  was 
"  afeared  of  it  again,  so  to  speak." 

"  I  think,"  said  Lemuel,  approaching  Mr.  Mayfield,  a  day  or 
two  before  the  frolic,  "  that  I  will  go  to  some  other  part  of  the 
country,  if  you  are  satisfied  to  have  it  so." 

Mr.  Mayfield  was  not  satisfied — had  he  not  done  all  that  was 
right,  and  if  so  what  objection  could  Lemuel  have  to  remain — 
the  season  of  hard-work  was  over,  and  there  would  be  compara- 
tively easy  times,  for  awhile — nevertheless  he  was  willing  to 
increase  the  wages  a  little  to  his  best  hands.  Lemuel  said  he 
was  not  begging  for  an  increase  of  wages — as  to  that  he  did 
not  care  a  curse  whether  he  earned  a  cent  or  not,  he  had 
always  done  his  duty,  pay  or  no  pay — he  laid  great  stress  upon 
having  done  his  duty,  and  glared  upon  Mr.  Mayfield  as  though 
he  had  asserted  the  contrary,  and  finally  he  ended  with  the 
declaration,  covered  all  round  with  profanity,  that  nobody  on 
the  farm  could  understand  him,  and  he  would  see  if  there  was 
any  place  where  they  could.  Argument,  entreaty,  were  useless. 
Mr.  Mayfield  saw  it,  and  informed  him  that  he  would  make 
arrangements  to  settle  with  him  that  day.  When  he  was  mak- 
ing up  his  knapsack  in  the  cold  red  light  of  that  evening,  there 
was  a  little  tap  on  the  door,  and  Mrs.  Mayfield's  nurse-girl 
informed  him  that  her  mistress  desired  to  speak  with  him. 


LEM    LTON.  21 

Lemuel  said  at  first  he  was  too  busy  to  go,  but  after  a  little, 
shame  for  such  rudeness  subdued  him,  and  having  thrust  his 
fingers  through  his  long  black  hair,  and  pulled  his  wrinkled 
bhirt  collar  about  his  chin,  he  descended. 

"  Ah,  how  kind  of  you  !"  cried  Mrs.  Mayfield,  running  for- 
ward and  shaking  both  his  hands. 

"  What  did  you  want  with  me,  madam  !"  asked  Lemuel, 
withdrawing  his  hands,  and  standing  erect. 

"  Why,  to  see  you,  to  be  sure,"  she  answered,  pulling  him 
forward  by  the  coat-sleeve,  and  almost  forcing  him  to  sit  in  the 
best  chair. 

His  startled  eyes  swept  the  room  with  a  glance,  and  seeing 
nothing  but  the  cradle  he  gave  himself  passively  up,  resolved 
to  suffer  it  out,  if  it  must  be  so.  Mrs.  Mayfield  talked  of  the 
late  frost,  of  the  apple-crop,  of  the  prospect  of  snow,  and  then 
she  told  Lemuel  she  should  look  to  him  to  see  to  it  that  she  did 
not  freeze  to  death  during  the  winter — he  must  provide  the  best 
hickory  in  unlimited  quantities,  that  was  her  royal  command. 
Lemuel  smiled  a  grim  smile  ;  perhaps  he  found  it  not  disagree- 
able to  be  softly  ordered  by  so  pretty  a  woman.  He  replied, 
however,  that  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  go  away.  Not  till 
the  winter  was  past,  certainly  !  Mrs.  Mayfield  could  not  hear 
of  it — in  the  spring  he  might  go  if  he  chose.  Why  what  would 
become  of  her  poor  baby,  if  Lemuel  did  not  stay  to  make  the  fires 
— nobody  but  he  knew  how  to  make  a  fire  at  all.  "  By  the  way," 
she  concluded,  drawing  the  cradle  close  to  Lemuel's  side,  "  you 
have  never  seen  the  baby  1" 

"  Humph  I"  said  he.  She  did  not  hear  him,  but  with  a 
countenance  beaming  with  pride  and  tenderness  folded  the 
blanket,  oh,  so  softly,  from  the  little  face.  Lemuel  looked 


22  LEM    LYON. 

another  way,  but  she  playfully  caught  him  by  the  button-hole, 
and  forced  him  to  see  her  darling. 

He  said  nothing  even  then,  and  a  frown,  as  he  looked,  knitted 
up  his  handsome  forehead  into  positive  ugliness. 

"  Why,  you  don't  like  my  baby,  Lemuel,"  she  said,  in  a  tone 
made  up  of  grief  and  tenderness,  as  she  looked  up  reproach- 
fully. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  do,"  he  answered,  his  own  heart  condemning 
him,  "  God  bless  all  the  babies,  I  say." 

But  there  was  no  blessing  in  his  tone  or  manner,  and  Mrs. 
Mayfield  turned  away  to  conceal  her  disappointment.  Just 
then  the  little  creature  opened  its  blue  eyes  and  looked  up  to 
Lemuel  for  the  protection  and  comfort  it  was  used  to  receive — 
the  hard  man  felt  the  appeal,  and  unawares,  perhaps,  extended 
his  rough,  brown  hand.  The  baby  caught  it  in  its  delicate 
lingers,  and  held  it  with  so  soft,  yet  firm  a  grasp,  that  Lemuel 
could  not  for  the  life  of  him  resist  the  appeal,  and  began 
shaking  the  cradle  about  after  the  only  fashion  of  rocking  he 
was  acquainted  with.  When  the  baby  smiled  in  his  face  he 
smiled  back  again.  Mrs.  Mayfield  smiled  too,  nay,  laughed 
outright  when  she  heard  him  chirping  to  her  darling  as  he  had 
heard  the  wood  birds  to  their  little  ones. 

"  I  think,"  said  Lemuel,  as  he  softly  touched  the  rosy  little 
cheeks  with  his  rough  palms,  "  that  more  fire  is  needed  here," 
I'll  think  of  what  you  said.  The  next  morning  he  went  to 
cutting  and  splitting  wood  with  right  good  will — he  had  made 
up  his  mind  to  remain  a  month  longer  and  lay  in  the  winter 
wood  for  Mrs.  Mayfield.  On  the  farm  and  among  the  men  his 
behavior  was  no  whit  gentler  than  formerly,  but  when  at  night 
he  filled  his  brawny  arms  with  hickory  wood  and  heaped  it 


LEM    LYON.  28 

against  the  jamb,  the  hard  expressions  of  the  day  fell  off  like  a 
mask,  and  he  was  sure  before  leaving  the  room  to  give  the 
cradle  a  jog  and  shake  hands  with  the  baby. 

With  the  frolic  Lemuel  would  have  nothing  to  do,  and  while 
the  other  hands  were  making  ready,  he  was  observed  to  take 
lys  way  alone  toward  the  Wolverton  woods. 

It  was  "  clar  and  sartin,  to  his  mind,"  Peter  said,  that  Lem 
liked  coon  hunting  better  than  any  other  fun.  That  simple- 
hearted  old  man  was  drawing  water  at  the  well,  when  near 
midnight  Lemuel  returned. 

"  Well,  how  many  simpletons  have  come  to  the  dance  ?"  he 
said,  stopping  and  taking  a  drink  of  water. 

Peter  was  enthusiastic  as  to  the  number  and  beauty  of  the 
young  women  who  graced  the  occasion.  "  When  I  see  them 
smiling  so,  and  looking  so  pretty,"  said  he,  "I  can't  help 
wishing  I  was  young,  and  here  are  you,  so  young  and  so  hand- 
some, who  would  rather  go  coon  hunting  than  stay  at  home 
where  they  are  blushing  like  a  hedge  of  roses — how  strange  !" 

Lemuel  replied  that  he  had  always  been  just  so,  that  at  no 
time  of  his  life  would  he  have  preferred  the  society  of  any  woman 
to  the  winds  and  woods,  and  his  own  thoughts.  Peter  was 
right,  he  said,  to  infer  that  he  had  been  hunting — it  was  a  sport 
of  which  he  never  tired.  As  they  walked  together  toward  the 
house,  he  repeated  over  two  or  three  times  that  he  had  never 
cared  a  straw  for  any  woman,  and  that  he  had  always  cared  a 
great  deal  about  hunting  coons.  "  By  the  way,"  he  said,  when 
they  reached  the  door,  "  is  that  ghost-woman  that  you  are 
always  talking  of,  at  your  merry-making  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,"  replied  Peter,  and  instinctively  stumbling  on  the 
truth,  he  added,  eagerly,  "  you  need  not  be  afeard  of  seeing 


24  LEM    LYON. 

her  !  Come  in,  Lera,  jest  a  leetle  bit — do !"  Lemuel  gave 
Peter's  shoulder  so  violent  a  jerk  as  to  jar  the  water  he  was 
carrying  over  the  pail,  and  answered  with  a  round  oath  that  he 
was  not  afraid  of  ghosts — much  less  of  women,  and  that  he  would 
go  in  and  show  the  whole  of  them  that  he  was  not  afraid  of 
them,  nor  ashamed  of  himself.  And  so  saying  he  rushed  rudely 
past  Peter,  and  with  his  red  woollen  shirt-collar  thrown  open, 
and  brawny  bosom  bare,  entered  the  gay  assemblage,  where  he 
became  at  once  the  pointed  object  of  attention — nay,  of  admira- 
tion, notwithstanding  his  rough  manners  and  rougher  costume. 
His  eyes  were  dark  and  beaming  with  intelligence — his  hair 
and  beard  of  massy  luxuriance  of  growth,  and  his  tawny  cheeks 
sufficiently  bright  with  angry  excitement  to  make  him  as  hand- 
some a  specimen  of  rustic  nobility  as  may  anywhere  be  found. 

He  was  too  proud  to  manifest  any  interest  iu  what  was  going 
forward,  if  he  felt  any,  and  sat  with  an  abstracted  air,  paying 
no  heed  to  the  many  soft  glances  that  invited  him  to  dance  as 
plainly  as  glances  could  invite  him. 

"  Pray,  Lemuel,  what  has  happened  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Mayfield, 
joining  him  in  the  obscure  corner  where  he  sat. 

"  Nothing,"  he  answered,  without  glancing  toward  her. 

"  Why,  you  look  as  if  you  had  lost  your  sweetheart,"  she 
continued,  gaily. 

Lemuel  reddened  with  anger,  and  said  women  were  always 
thinking  of  love — always  talking  of  sweethearts,  and  turning 
everything  into  sentiment,  which  he  hated.  '  He  had  never  had 
a  sweetheart,  and  of  course  could  not  have  lost  her.  Mrs. 
Mayfield  was  determined  not  to  be  angry  with  him,  and  answer- 
ed playfully  that  for  her  foolish  talk  to  so  grave  and  wise  a 
man,  she  was  in  the  dust  of  humiliation  and  repentance,  and 


LEM    LYON.  25 

she  begged  that  he  would  forgive  her,  and  as  a  mark  of  his 
reconciliation  dance  with  her.  No,  Lemuel  never  danced — he 
would  as  soon  be  caught  stealing  a  sheep — he  hoped  Mrs. 
Mayfield  would  find  a  more  interesting  partner. 

The  good-natured  little  woman  called  him  an  ugly  bear — said 
she  would  try  to  find  a  more  interesting  partner,  and  meantime 
if  he  would  not  use  his  feet,  she  would  compel  him  to  turn  his 
hands  to  good  account,  and  placing  her  baby  on  his  knees  as 
she  said  so,  she  skipped  lightly  away. 

It  was  an  awkward  position  for  Lemuel,  and  he  was  at  first 
half  inclined  to  let  the  child  fall  off  his  lap,  but  when  he  found 
it  tipping  one  way  and  the  other,  he  caught  it  in  his  arm, 
and  having  once  caught  it,  he  could  not  let  it  go.  The  soft, 
little  hands  found  the  way  to  his  face,  and  the  stubborn  man 
presently  found  himself  leaning  down  his  head  so  they  might 
tear  his  whiskers  and  eyes  just  as  they  chose. 

When  it  grew  tired  and  fell  asleep  to  the  music  of  the  violin, 
he  tenderly  carried  it  away  to  its  cradle,  and  rocked  and  kept 
the  fire  bright  till  long  after  midnight. 

When  the  spring  came  round,  and  the  nurse  would  carry  the 
baby  out  on  the  south  porch,  Lemuel  would  stop  as  he  passed 
that  way  to  attend  his  work — smooth  its  silken  curls  beneath 
his  rough  hand,  and  perhaps  give  it  some  bright  flower  which 
he  had  brought  from  a  distant  field.  Sometimes  one  or  two  of 
the  other  hands  would  join  him  on  the  porch,  for  the  baby  was 
gradually  becoming  a  central  object  of  interest  to  them  all, 
and  it  was  curious  to  see  how  the  manners  and  voices  of  those 
rude  men  softened  as  they  approached  the  little  creature.  The 
greatest  change  imaginable  was  being  wrought  in  Lemuel — he 
was  less  sullen  than  he  used  to  be — isolated  himself  less  from 

2 


26  LEM    LTON. 

the  other  hands  during  the  day,  and  at  night  went  rarely  to 
the  Wolverton  woods.  Before  the  summer  was  gone,  little 
Blossom,  for  by  that  name  she  was  known  among  the  hands, 
had  learned  to  know  who  loved  her,  and  to  clap  her  hands  and 
shout  when  she  saw  Lemuel  coming,  and  reach  up  her  little 
arms  with  a  tender  appeal  that  brought  his  neck  right  down  to 
her — then  he  would  seat  her  on  his  shoulder,  and  as  she  clung 
tightly  to  his  ears,  hair  or  beard,  as  it  happened,  carry  her  up 
and  down  the  door-yard  till  she  was  tired  out.  Sometimes, 
when  Mrs.  Mayfield  rocked  her  darling  to  sleep  on  the  moonlit 
porch,  Lemuel  would  busy  himself  with  chores  that  kept  him 
near  about,  not  knowing  himself  perhaps  what  influence  was 
secretly  at  work  in  his  heart.  In  the  autumn,  and  before  she 
could  hold  one  of  them  in  her  tiny  hand,  Blossom's  little  lap  was 
filled  every  day  with  bright  apples,  and  when  the  old  mare  was 
brought  to  the  well  to  drink  at  night,  Lemuel's  great  coat  was 
doubled  up  into  a  cushion  and  laid  across  her  neck,  and  little 
Blossom,  in  her  soft,  white  cloak  and  cap,  was  handed  up,  and 
rode  sometimes  to  see  the  cattle,  sometimes  to  see  the  sheep, 
but  it  was  always  Lemuel  that  protected  her  so  softly,  and 
brought  her  back  so  safely. 

In  one  corner  of  the  door-yard  was  a  maple  tree,  beneath 
which  was  a  rude  bench,  where  often  in  the  early  evening 
Lemuel  sat  trotting  the  baby  on  one  knee,  and  singing  old 
ditties  for  her  that  he  never  sang  at  other  times.  Sometimes 
he  would  tell  her  long  stories,  and  the  pathos  and  the  power  of 
his  voice  at  those  times,  not  unfrequently  frightened  the  little 
listener,  and  when  she  would  cling  to  his  bosom  in  strange 
alarm,  he  would  tell  her  very  softly  that  what  he  had  been 
saying  was  all  a  great  story — that  no  such  people  ever  lived  as 


LEM    LYOX.  27 

he  had  been  talking  of,  and  when  by  the  tenderness  of  his  tones 
she  was  soothed,  for  she  understood  nothing  of  what  he  said, 
he  would  carry  her  up  and  down  the  door-yard  until  she  fell 
asleep,  for  she  loved  him  now  as  well  as  she  loved  her  mother, 
almost,  and  her  first  faltering  steps  were  towards  him. 

When  her  birth-day  came  round,  the  farm  house  was  lighted 
up,  the  hands  wore  their  best  clothes,  and  Lemuel  danced  with 
her  on  his  shoulder,  to  the  great  delight  and  amusement  of  the 
young  women,  whose  admiration  he  was  sure  to  win,  no  matter 
what  he  did. 

It  was  about  the  middle  of  June,  and  little  Blossom,  who 
was  now  a  year  and  a  half  old,  could  run  about  the  door-yard 
and  pick  flowers  for  herself.  She  was  become  the  pet  and 
plaything  of  all  the  hands,  and  even  upon  the  most  careless 
there  fell  a  silence  when  it  was  mentioned  at  dinner-time  one 
day  that  she  was  not  well.  That  evening,  when  Lemuel  took 
her  on  his  shoulder,  she  did  not  laugh  and  clap  her  hands  as 
usual,  but  put  her  arms  around  his  neck  very  quietly,  and 
leaned  her  cheek  down  upon  his  head.  He  carried  her  longer 
than  usual,  and  told  her  over  all  the  pretty  stories  she  had 
been  used  to  listen  to  with  delight,  but  her  cheek  grew  hot  as 
it  rested  heavily  upon  his  head,  the  arms  clung  more  and  more 
tightly  to  his  neck,  and  she  moaned  and  fretted,  not  noisily, 
but  piteously,  and  to  herself,  as  it  were. 

When  he  had  exhausted  all  resources,  he  carried  her  back 
to  the  porch  and  placed  her  on  her  mother's  knees,  thinking 
that  all  would  now  be  well,  but  when  she  moaned  and  fretted 
piteously  as  before,  he  went  to  his  old  seat  beneath  the  maple 
tree  and  watched  the  stars  as  they  flew  away  from  the  clouds. 
Two  or  three  times  he  came  to  the  porch-side  to  ask  whether 


28  LEM    LYON. 

she  were  any  better,  and  when  he  learned  at  length  that  her 
katydids  had  sung  her  to  sleep,  he  went  to  bed  saying  no 
doubt  she  would  be  better  in  the  morning,  but  not  altogether 
believing  it. 

At  daybreak  he  was  astir — he  did  not  know  why  he  could 
not  sleep,  he  said,  he  thought  it  was  owing  to  the  heat — poor 
man,  he  was  ashamed  to  say  it  was  his  love  for  a  baby  that 
could  not  yet  speak  plainly  that  kept  him  awake. 

The  hands  were  all  silent  at  breakfast  that  morning,  for  they 
missed  the  prattle  of  little  Blossom,  and  the  fear  that  they 
should  never  hear  it  again  was  making  its  way  to  their  hearts. 

At  noontime  Lemuel  brought  the  oxen  close  to  the  door, 
and  when  the  baby,  pleased  for  a  little  while,  put  her  hands  on 
their  heads,  as  they  bent  them  down  to  her  gentle  touches,  he 
deceived  himself  with  the  hope  that  she  was  better.  It  was 
strange  to  see  the  rough  man  parting  her  silken  hair — rocking 
the  cradle  so  softly,  and  leaning  over  it  with  such  tenderness — 
his  heart  was  more  than  touched. 

The  third  day  of  the  illness  of  little  Blossom,  the  hands 
walked  softly  along  the  porch-side  when  they  came  to  dinner, 
for  they  saw  standing  under  the  cherry  tree  at  the  gate  the 
old  white  faced  horse  of  the  village  doctor.  Lemuel  left  the 
table  long  before  the  other  hands  that  day — he  did  not  feel 
very  well,  he  said.  Soon  after  this  the  usual  order  of  the  work 
was  suspended,  the  hands  loitered  about  the  barns  and  sheds, 
gome  of  them,  and  some  found  their  own  work. 

One  evening,  as  Peter  sat  on  the  wood-pile  cutting  sticks 
with  his  penknife  to  divert  his  thoughts,  Lemuel  joined  him 
and  inquired  if  he  knew  whether  little  Blossom  was  any  bet- 
ter. 


LEM    LYON.  29 

"  Better  1"  Peter  exclaimed,  "  why,  no,  sartainly  she  never 
will  be  any  better,"  and  he  proceeded  to  say  without  circumlo- 
cution or  softening,  that  in  his  opinion  she  was  struck  with 
death  the  midnight  past.  For  a  few  moments  he  cut  his  stick 
in  silence,  and  then,  as  if  in  pursuance  of  some  train  of 
thought,  inquired  of  Lemuel  whether  he  had  brought  the  spade 
and  grubbing-hoe  from  the  hollow  where  he  had  been  ditching. 

A  cold  chill  crept  over  Lemuel  as  he  replied  irritably,  "No! 
why  should  I  bring  them  ?  We  shall  be  using  them  again  to- 
morrow." 

"  I  know  we  shall  use  them  to-morrow,"  answered  Peter, 
"  but  not  there — I  will  go  and  fetch  them." 

"  Oh,  no,  no  1"  cried  Lemuel,  "  for  Heaven's  sake  don't  go  ;" 
and  seizing  his  arm,  he  pulled  Peter  back  to  the  log  from 
which  he  had  half  risen.  While  the  two  men  talked  together, 
several  neighbors  passed  along,  and  each  one  stopped  to  inquire 
how  the  baby  was,  and  to  suggest  some  remedy  or  proffer 
sympathy.  Among  the  rest  was  Mr.  Wolverton.  Lemuel  had 
never  liked  him,  for  he  was  a  hard,  money-loving  man,  but 
leaning  over  the  fence  he  shook  hands  with  him,  and  entered 
with  unaffected  interest  into  all  his  affairs. 

"  Sartainly,"  said  Peter,  joining  the  "  work-girl "  at  the 
kitchen  door,  "  that  Lena  Lyon  is  the  most  onreasonable  crit- 
ter I  ever  see — he  was  angry  just  now  because  I  wanted  to  go 
to  the  field  and  bring  home  the  grubbing-hoe — 'cause  I  see  it 
would  be  needed,  you  know,  and  then  he  seemed  mournful-like, 
more  than  mad,  so  to  speak,  and  all  at  once  he  goes  and  begins 
to  talk  with  old  Wolverton,  whom  we  all  know  he  never  could 
bar — a  strange  nater  he's  got." 

Ah,  Peter,  you  hit  the  truth  there,  it  was  a  strange  nature 


80  LEM    LTON. 

that  Lemuel  had — one  that  he  could  not  himself  understand, 
much  less  you. 

Trial  and  tribulation  are  to  trivial  natures  always  hard  to 
bear,  and  the  "  work-girl,"  glad  of  any  pretext,  said  the  May- 
fields  were  a  queer  set.  She  was  tired  of  being  among  them — 
afraid,  in  fact,  of  catching  the  baby's  fever,  and  would,  she 
believed,  tie  up  her  bundle  and  go  home. 

She  gave  no  other  intimation  of  her  intention,  to  any  one, 
but  without  more  ado  carried  it  at  once  into  execution,  throw- 
ing upon  poor  Mrs.  Mayfield  a  burden  of  domestic  care  and 
responsibility  to  which  at  that  time  she  was  unequal. 

The  morning  was  cloudy  with  prospects  of  rain,  and  on 
rising  Lemuel  saw  with  alarm  the  doctor's  horse  standing  be- 
neath the  cherry  tree,  and  he  judged  by  the  circle  of  turf 
pawed  away,  that  he  had  been  there  a  long  time.  He  knocked 
at  Mrs.  Mayfield's  door,  and  was  bidden  in  a  low  voice  to  come 
in.  The  inquiry,  "  How  is  little  Blossom  ?"  died  on  his  lips — 
he  saw  how  it  all  was.  The  mother  vainly  hoped  that  her  dar- 
ling might  recognize  the  voice  of  Lemuel  and  look  up  once 
more.  He  was  not  ashamed  now  of  showing  that  he  loved  her 
— he  took  the  little  hands  in  his,  but  they  would  not  grow 
warm — kissed  the  blue  eyelids  and  called  her  by  her  pet  name, 
but  though  at  last  she  looked  up,  she  did  not  know  her  good 
friend  any  more.  There  fell  the  last  hardness,  the  last  un- 
worthy pride  from  the  heart  of  Lemuel  Lyon.  Just  as  the 
candle  flickered  in  the  whitening  light  of  day,  the  little  life 
went  out. 

Peter  saddled  the  old  mare  and  rode  away  to  the  village  to 
bespeak  a  coffin  ;  and  Dan,  who  never  lost  sight  of  his  per- 
sonal comfort,  took  upon  himself  the  overseeing  of  the  house- 


T.TCM     LTON.  31 

work,  and  having  directed  one  man  to  make  a  fire,  and  another 
to  fill  the  tea-kettle,  took  the  coffee-mill  between  his  knees,  and 
fancied  he  was  doing  an  efficient  work,  albeit  he  was  turning 
the  crank  the  wrong  way.  About  sunset  Lemuel  set  out  from 
home  in  Mr.  Mayfield's  covered  wagon,  for  what  purpose  none 
of  the  hands  could  imagine  ;  the  rain  was  falling  pretty  fast, 
and  there  were  indications  of  violent  winds,  which  would  make 
the  roads  through  the  woods  dangerous  to  travel. 

We  will  pass  over  the  funeral,  saying  only  that  when  the 
service  was  over,  the  coffin  was  placed  under  the  maple  tree-  iii 
the  corner  of  the  dooryard,  and  that  the  hands,  when  they 
had  seen  the  little  face  for  the  last  time,  followed  Peter  who, 
with  tear-wet  cheeks,  carried  the  coffin  in  his  arms  to  the  burial 
ground.  From  all  the  sad  ceremony,  we  will  pass  to  the  time 
of  Lemuel's  return. 

It  was  just  after  sunset — the  birds  whistling  and  chirping 
among  the  branches  of  the  trees,  along  the  topmost  fence-rails, 
and  here  and  there  from  the  ground,  as  if  there  had  never 
been  a  cloud  nor  a  sorrow  in  the  world  ;  the  bereaved  mother 
stood  at  the  window,  gazing  steadily  one  way — the  only  way 
she  cared  to  look,  now,  when  her  attention  was  arrested  by  a 
noise  at  the  gate — there  stood  the  farm  wagon,  splashed  with 
mud,  and  the  farm  horses,  their  tails  knotted  up,  their  heads 
down,  and  a  cloud  of  steam  rising  above  them — and  there  was 
Lemuel,  and  by  his  side  a  woman,  not  handsome  nor  young, 
but  with  a  good  heart  shining  in  her  face,  and  a  bright-eyed 
boy  of  three  years  old  in  her  arms. 

Lemuel,  seeing  that  he  was  observed,  hesitated  slightly,  and 
a  deep  flush  brightened  the  bronze  of  his  cheek,  but  he  mastered 
the  weakness,  and  taking  the  child  in  his  own  arms,  said  with 


32  LEM    LYON. 

emotion,  that  might  have  been  shame — might  have  been  ten- 
derness, or  was  made  up  of  both,  perhaps,  "  What  do  you  call 
him,  Lydia  ?" 

"  Lemuel — what  else  should  I  call  him  ?"  replied  the  woman, 
in  a  tone  that  was  exceedingly  soft  and  gentle.  The  boy  turned 
his  bright  face  bashfully  aside  from  Lemuel,  and  with  one  hand 
clinging  tightly  to  his  mother's  shawl,  they  came,  down  the  walk 
together. 

Mrs.  Mayfield  met  them  on  the  porch,  and  covering  the  boy 
with  kisses,  said,  perhaps  to  save  Lemuel  the  embarrassment  of 
an  introduction,  "how  very  much  he  resembles  your  wife, 
Lemuel,"  and  shaking  hands  with  the  woman,  she  led  her  into 
the  house,  where  she  sunk  into  a  seat  and  burst  into  a  flood  of 
tears — the  result  of  mingled  emotions — pride  in  Lemuel — pride 
in  her  beautiful  boy — shame  for  herself. 

When  Peter  had  completed  the  chores  and  was  coming 
towards  the  house  to  supper,  he  saw  the  strange  child  at  play 
in  the  door  yard — trying  to  cover  a  butterfly  with  a  white 
handkerchief.  At  sight  of  him  the  boy  ran  away,  leaving  the 
handkerchief  behind  him,  which  Peter  picked  up,  and  idly  ex- 
amined. All  at  once  there  came  a  glow  of  curious  wonder  into 
Peter's  face,  and  turning  back  in  the  path  and  joining  Dan  who 
was  a  few  steps  behind,  he  exclaimed,  "  I  b'lieve  my  soul  this 
is  the  very  handkerchief  I  found  and  hid  in  my  Sunday  hat, 
the  one  that  vanished  away,  so  to  speak,  and  here's  the  name 
in  the  corner,  in  sampler  letters,  '  Lydia  ;'  the  whole  affair  is  a 
great  mystery,"  and  a  mystery  it  always  remained,  for  Mrs. 
Mayfield  kept  faithfully  the  secret  that  Lemuel  had  only  now 
made  the  woman  who  had  been  the  mother  of  his  boy  so  long, 
his  true  and  honorable  wife.  Once  indeed,  Peter  remarked  to 


LEM    LTON.  33 

Dan  that  if  Lena's  wife  had  all  the  roses  and  the  sunshine  took 
out  of  her  face  she  would  look  'amost  like  the  gal  what  took 
that  cryin'-spell  in  old  Wolverton's  woods. 

Innocence  and  beauty  win  their  own  way,  and  little 
Lemuel  was  soon  the  light  of  the  house — the  favorite  of  every- 
body, Lydia  was  installed  housekeeper  and  mistress  of  the 
kitchen,  and  Lemuel,  now  Mr.  Lyon,  became  manager  of  the 
farm,  and  as  much  beloved  by  the  hands  as  he  had  formerly 
been  feared. 


PASSAGES   FROM   THE 

MARRIED   LIFE   OF  ELEANOR  -HOMES. 


A  GOOD  many  years  ago  I  fell  in  love  and  was  married. 

"  How  did  it  happen  ?" 

Why,  how  does  it  ever  happen?  "I  doubt  if  the  sagest 
philosopher  of  them  all  could  explain  how  the  like  happened 
unto  him,  and  therefore  it  were  presumptuous  to  expect  a 
woman  to  make  luminous  so  great  a  mystery." 

"  You  think  a  woman  might  understand  her  own  heart,  even 
though  a  philosopher  might  fail  to  ?" 

"  Audacious  !  Don't  you  know  that  women  shine  faintly  at 
best,  and  by  reflection  ?" 

"  Really,  I  don't  know.     I  never  thought  about  it." 

"  Many  women  never  do,  and  pass  through  life  without  ever 
being  sufficiently  grateful  for  the  blessings  they  are  permitted 
to  enjoy.  However,  I  believe  the  minds  of  the  sexes  are  wholly 
dissimilar,  even  when  of  an  equal  power.  Women  know  more, 
but  acquire  less  than  men  ;  they  do  not  investigate  and  analyze, 
and  infer  and  conclude — their  inferences  and  conclusions  are 

84 


MARRIED   LIKE   OF   ELEANOR   HOMES.  35 

independent  of  any  process  of  reasoning.  Since  the  beginning 
of  time  nature  has  said  of  every  one  of  them — 

"  This  child  I  to  myself  will  take  ; 
She  shall  be  mine,  and  I  will  make 
A  lady  of  my  own." 

And  if  each  were  permitted  to  follow  her  instincts,  and  rely 
upon  her  intuitions,  there  would  not  be  among  us  so  many 
miserable  bewailings.  All  women  have  more  or  less  genius — 
which,  after  all,  is  simply  power  of  suspending  the  reasoning 
and  reflecting  faculties,  and  suffering  the  light  which,  whatever 
it  be,  is  neither  external  nor  secondary,  to  flow  in.  But  I 
proposed  to  tell  a  story,  and  repeat,  I  fell  in  love,  and  was 
married. 

"  Did  I  really  love  ?" 

I  suppose  so  ;  indeed  I  am  quite  certain,  from  intimations 
now  and  then  received,  that  it  was  one  phase  of  that  capability 
which  lives  under  wrinkles  and  grey  hairs,  in  all  the  freshness 
of  youth.  But  it  is  difficult  to  define  the  exact  limit  of  positive 
love — it  shades  itself  by  such  fine  gradations  into  pity  and 
passion,  friendship  and  frenzy.  The  state  of  feeling  I  fell  into 
was  none  of  these  latter,  I  am  quite  sure,  and  yet  I  should  be 
loth  to  affirm  it  was  that  condition  of  self-abnegation  which 
admits  of  no  consideration  aside  from  the  happiness  of  the 
object  beloved  ;  for,  if  I  remember  rightly,  there  came  to  me  at 
rare  intervals  some  visions  of  my  own  personal  interests  and 
pleasures.  And  yet  I  had  no  hesitancy  in  pledging  myself  to 
love,  honor,  and  obey,  because  I  had  no  idea  that  these  pledges 
conflicted  with  the  widest  liberty.  Was  not  he  to  whom  I  should 
make  these  pledges  a  most  excellent  and  honorable  gentleman, 


36  PASSAGES   PROM  THE 

who  would  have  no  requirement  to  prefer  at  variance  with  my 
wishes  ?  To  be  sure  he  was.  Did  he  not  always  prefer  my 
pleasure  to  his  own,  or  rather  have  no  pleasure  but  mine  ?  So 
he  was  pleased  to  say,  and  for  my  part,  I  never  doubted  it. 

We  took  long  moonlight  walks  together — talked  sentiment, 
of  course — read  poetry,  and  now  and  then  quarrelled  prettily 
about  the  shade  of  a  rose,  or  the  pencilling  of  a  tulip,  and 
interspersed  our  discourse  with  allusions  to  our  cottage  that 
was  to  be.  Should  it  be  smothered  in  trees  or  open  to  the 
sun? 

"Just  as  you  prefer,  my  dear." 

"  Oh,  no,  darling  !  it  shall  all  be  just  as  you  say." 

Could  I  have  a  pot  of  geraniums  and  a  canary  bird  to 
brighten  my  cottage  window  ? 

"  A  thousand  of  them,"  if  I  chose  ;  but  my  own  self  would  be 
the  grace  that  graced  all  other  graces — the  beautifier  of  every 
beauty  beside. 

What  should  our  recreations  be?  That  was  an  absurd 
question,  and  soon  dismissed.  The  introduction  of  a  foreign 
element  would  never  be  necessary  into  society  so  perfect  as  we 
two  should  compose. 

So  we  were  married — never  having  exchanged  a  single 
thought  concerning  the  great  duties  and  responsibilities  of  life 
— I,  for  my  part,  having  no  slightest  conception  of  the  homely 
cares  and  ingenious  planning  ;  of  the  fearing  and  hoping, 
patience,  forbearance,  and  endurance,  that  must  needs  make  a 
part  of  life's  drama,  wherever  enacted. 

The  bridal  veil  was  never  looked  through  after  the  bridal 
day  ;  consequently  the  world  took  another  coloring  before  very 
long.  I  must  be  allowed  to  say  I  was  not  yet  twenty,  as  some 


MARRIED   LIFE    OF   ELEANOR    HOMES.  37 

extenuation  of  the  follies  I  should  have  been  ashamed  of,  even 
then,  and  must  also  relate  some  little  incidents  and  particulars 
of  my  married  life  that  gave  ineffaceable  colors  to  my  maturer 
mind  and  character. 

My  husband's  name  was  Henry  Doughty — Harry,  I  used  to 
call  him,  partly  because  the  designation  pleased  him,  and  partly 
because  I  entertained  a  special  dislike  for  the  name  of  Doughty. 
I  gave  a  much  better  one  away  for  it,  however. 

My  maiden  name  was  Homes — Eleanor  Homes — Nellie,  they 
called  me  among  my  friends,  before  I  was  married  ;  afterward, 
when  the  novelty  of  calling  me  Mrs.  Doughty  was  over,  they 
said  poor  Nell. 

We  had  not  been  an  hour  from  church — my  bridemaids  were 
about  me,  among  them  my  haughty  sister  Katharine,  who  had 
not  very  cordially  received  her  new  relative.  Some  one  rallied 
me  on  my  promise  to  obey,  and  asked  Mr.  Doughty  how  he 
proposed  to  enforce  my  obligation. 

"  Oh,  after  this  sort,"  he  replied  gaily,  brandishing  the  little 
switch-cane  he  was  playing  with  about  my  shoulder.  I  turned 
carelessly,  and  the  point  of  it  struck  my  eye. 

"  It  was  your  own  fault  ?"  was  his  first  exclamation.  The 
pain  of  the  wound  was  intense,  but  it  was  the  harsh  words  that 
made  the  tears  come.  I  was  frightened  when  I  saw  them,  for 
I  felt  that  it  was  an  awful  impropriety  to  cry  then  and  there, 
and  putting  by  all  proffered  remedies  as  though  the  little  acci- 
dent were  quite  unworthy  of  attention,  I  smiled,  nay,  even 
affected  to  laugh,  and  said  it  was  solely  and  entirely  my  own 
foolish  fault,  and  moreover,  that  I  always  cried  on  like  occasions 
— not,  of  course,  on  account  of  any  suffering,  but  owing  to  a 
nervous  susceptibility  I  could  not  overcome. 


38  PASSAGES   FROM  THE 

Katharine,  meantime,  to  augment  the  criminality  of  the 
offence,  was  proffering  various  medicines  ;  among  them,  she 
brought  me  at  this  juncture,  a  towel,  wet  with  I  know  not 
what. 

"  Take  it  away  again,"  said  Mr.  Doughty;  "nothing  I  so 
much  dislike  as  nervous  susceptibility — pray  don't  encourage  it." 

Katharine  would  not  speak,  but  she  replied  by  a  very  signifi- 
cant look,  and,  to  conciliate  both,  I  accepted  the  towel,  but 
did  not  apply  it  to  the  wounded  eye — swollen  and  red  by  this 
time  to  an  unsightly  degree  ;  in  truth,  I  was  afraid  to  do  so. 
My  sensations  were  certainly  new,  as  I  thus  trifled  with  my 
afflictions,  forcing  myself  even  to  make  pitiable  advances 
toward  my  offender,  in  the  hope  of  winning  him  to  some  little 
display  of  tenderness,  for  the  sake  of  appearances  wholly,  for  I 
was  not  in  the  mood  to  receive  them  appreciatively  just  then. 
I  was  singularly  unfortunate,  however,  and  might  have  spared 
myself  the  humiliation. 

I  had  succeeded,  in  some  sort,  in  reviving  my  spirits,  for  it  is 
hard  to  dampen  the  ardor  of  a  young  woman  on  her  wedding- 
day,  when  my  enthusiasm  received  another  check.  I  was  sitting 
at  the  window,  that  I  might  find  some  excuse  for  my  occasional 
abstraction  in  observation,  and  also  to  keep  the  wounded  eye 
away  from  the  company.  Happening  once  to  change  my  posi- 
tion, my  husband  said  to  me  :  "  Keep  your  face  to  the  window, 
my  dear  madam  ;  your  ridiculous  applications  have  made  your 
eye  really  shocking  I" 

"  Why,  Harry  I"  I  said— if  I  had  taken  time  to  think,  I 
would  not  have  said  anything  ;  but  the  unkindness  was  so  obvi- 
ous ifc  induced  the  involuntary  exclamation,  and  everybody  saw 
that  I  felt  myself  injured. 


MARRIED  LIFE   OP  ELEANOR  HOMES.  39 

By  some  sisterly  subterfuge,  Kate  decoyed  me  into  her  own 
room,  where  my  husband  did  not  take  occasion  to  seek  me  very 
soon.  When  he  did  so,  he  patted  my  cheek  and  said  half-play- 
fully,  "  I  have  come  to  scold  you,  Nell." 

My  heart  beat  fast.  He  had  felt  my  absence,  then,  and  was 
come  with  some  tender  reproach.  I  began  to  excuse  myself, 
when  he  interrupted  me  with  an  exclamation  of  impatience. 
He  was  sorry  to  find  me  so  impetuous  and  womanish — exhibi- 
tions of  any  emotion,  but  more  especially  of  tender  emotion, 
were  in  bad  taste.  I  must  manage  in  some  way  to  control  my 
impulses,  and  also  to  discriminate — he  was  always  pleased  to 
be  called  Harry,  when  we  were  alone,  but  in  miscellaneous 
company  a  little  more  formality  was  usual  ! 

"  Your  name  is  not  so  beautiful,"  I  replied,  angrily,  "  that 
you  should  want  to  hear  it  unnecessarily." 

He  elevated  his  eyebrows  a  little,  and  smiled  one  of  his  pecu- 
liar smiles,  never  too  sweet  to  be  scornful. 

I  hid  my  face  in  my  sister's  pillow,  and  almost  wished  I 
might  never  lift  it  up. 

Seeing  me  shaken  with  suppressed  sobs,  he  bent  over  me  and 
kissed  my  forehead,  much  as  we  give  a  child  a  sugar-plum  after 
having  whipped  it,  and  left  me  with  the  hope  that  I  would  com- 
pose myself,  and  not  wrong  my  beauty  by  such  ill-timed  tears  ! 

Excellent  advice,  but  not  very  well  calculated  to  aid  me  in 
its  execution.  Many  times  after  that  I  wronged  such  poor 
beauty  as  I  brought  to  him,  by  my  ill-timed  tears. 

The  story  of  the  accident,  and  of  my  crying  on  my  wedding- 
day,  went  abroad  with  many  exaggerations,  and  my  husband 
gave  me  to  understand,  without  any  direct  reference  to  anything 
that  had  taken  place,  that  I  had  unnecessarily  brought  reproach 


40  PASSAGES   FROM  THE 

upon  him.  It  had  been  arranged  that  we  were  to  live  at  home 
a  year  ;  my  parents — foolish  old  folks  !  could  not  bear  the 
thought  of  giving  me  up  at  once — as  if  the  hope  to  make  all 
things  as  they  were,  were  not  utterly  useless,  after  I  had  once 
given  myself  up. 

The  experiment  proved  a  delusion — empty  of  comfort  to  all 
parties  concerned ;  and  here  let  me  say,  that  if  two  persons, 
when  they  are  once  married,  cannot  find  happiness  with  each 
other,  no  third  party  can  in  any  wise  mend  the  matter. 

I  think  now  if  there  had  been  no  .one  to  strengthen  my 
obstinacy,  and  hinder  such  little  conciliations  as,  unobserved,  I 
might  have  proffered,  our  early  differences  might  have  been 
healed  over  without  any  permanent  alienation. 

However  well  two  persons  may  have  known  each  other 
before  marriage,  the  new  relation  develops  new  characteristics, 
and  necessitates  a  process  of  assimilation,  difficult  under  the 
most  genial  circumstances. 

Of  course  my  family  took  my  part,  whether  or  not  I  was  in  the 
right,  and  thus  sustained  I  took  larger  liberties,  sometimes,  than 
it  was  wise  to  take — trifled  and  played  with  all  my  husband's 
predilections — called  them  whimsies,  if  I  noticed  them,  but  for  the 
most  part  affected  an  unconsciousness  of  their  existence.  For 
instance,  I  had  a  foolish  habit  of  turning  through  books  and 
papers  in  a  noisy  way,  which  I  persevered  in  rather  in  conse- 
quence of  his  admonitions  than  in  spite  of  them. 

One  night  he  did  not  come  home  at  the  usual  time.  I  grew 
impatient,  uneasy,  and  at  last,  in  spite  of  Kate's  sneer,  took  my 
station  at  the  window  to  watch  for  him :  in  a  minute  or  two 
thereafter  he  came  up  the  walk.  I  opened  the  door  and  my 
arms  at  the  same  time,  crying,  "  How  glad  I  am  !" 


MARRIED   LIFE   OF   ELEANOR   HOMES.  41 

"  What  for  ?"  he  said,  gliding  past  me  in  his  quiet  way. 

"  Are  you  not  glad  ?"  I  inquired,  determined  not  to  be  put 
out  of  humor  for  once  ;  my  best  feelings  had  been  really 
stirred. 

"Certainly,"  he  answered,  seating  himself  in  the  corner 
opposite  to  me,  and  opening  the  evening  paper.  "  I  am  glad 
to  get  home.  I  am  very  tired." 

He  did  not  once  look  at  me  as  he  said  this,  and  Kate  com- 
pleted my  discomfort  by  saying — 

"  Well,  I  suppose  Nell  is  blessed  enough  to  be  permitted  to 
look  upon  you,  even  in  the  distance.  She  used  to  have  a  little 
spirit,  but  I  believe  marriage  has  crushed  even  that  out  of 
her." 

"  Humph  !"  said  my  husband. 

"  What  do  you  find  interesting  in  the  paper  to-night  ?"  I 
said,  determined  to  enforce  some  attention  by  way  of  triumph 
over  Kate.  He  made  a  motion  which  deprecated  interruption, 
and  taking  a  new  novel  from  his  pocket,  threw  it  into  my  lap. 

"  Milk  for  babes  !"  said  Kate,  sarcastically.  I  said  nothing, 
and  she  went  on  provokingly  :  "  Take  your  plaything  away, 
child,  and  don't  make  a  bit  of  noise  with  it." 

Here  was  a  happy  suggestion.  I  had  failed  in  my  effort  to 
be  agreeable.  I  would  be  disagreeable  now  to  my  heart's  con- 
tent. I  was  at  some  pains  to  find  an  old  pair  of  jagged  scis- 
sors, and  having  found  them,  I  seated  myself  at  my  husband's 
elbow,  and  began  to  saw  open  the  leaves  of  my  book,  with  the 
double  purpose  of  annoying  him  and  convincing  Kate  that  I 
had  some  spirit  left  yet. 

Now  and  then  I  glanced  towards  him  to  see  if  his  brows  were 
not  knitting,  and  the  angry  spot  rising  in  his  cheek,  but  to  my 


42  PASSAGES    FROM   THK 

surprise  and  vexation  I  saw  no  manifestation  of  annoyance — 
he  read  on  apparently  completely  absorbed,  and  wearing  a 
smile  on  his  face — a  little  too  fixed,  perhaps,  to  be  quite  spon- 
taneous. 

So  I  went  on  to  the  last  leaf,  cutting  and  ruffling  as  noisily 
as  I  could,  but  I  had  only  my  trouble  for  my  pains — he  did  not 
lift  his  eyes  towards  me  for  an  instant. 

When  Kate  left  us  alone,  I  felt  exceedingly  uncomfortable — 
for  I  had  felt  my  behavior  countenanced  by  her  presence. 
After  all,  I  thought,  presently,  my  husband  is  perhaps  quite 
unconscious  of  any  effort  on  my  part  to  annoy  him ;  but 
whether  be  were  so  or  not,  my  best  course,  I  concluded,  would 
be  to  affect  unconsciousness  of  it  myself.  Thus  resolved,  I 
yawned,  naturally  I  thought,  and,  as  if  impulsively,  threw  down 
the  book — took  the  paper  from  his  hand  with  a  wifely  privi- 
lege, and  seated  myself  on  his  knee.  He  suffered  me  to  sit 
there,  but  neither  smiled  nor  spoke. 

"  Why  don't  you  say  something  to  me  ?"  I  was  reduced  to 
ask  at  length. 

"What  shall  I  say?" 

"  Why,  something  sweet,  to  be  sure." 

"  Well,  sugar-candy — is  that  sweet  enough  ?" 

"  What  a  provoking  wretch  you  are  I"  I  cried,  flying  out  of 
the  room  in  hot  haste. 

I  hoped  he  would  forbid  my  going,  or  call  me  back,  but  he 
did  neither. 

After  some  tears  and  a  confidential  interview  with  Kate, 
that  made  me  more  angry  with  her  and  with  myself  than  with 
iny  husband,  I  returned,  and  found  him  quietly  lolling  in  the 
easy-chair,  and  eating  an  apple  1 


MAKRIED   LIFE    OF    ELEANOR   HOMES.  43 

As  time  went  by,  Kate's  arrogance  and  insolence  towards 
Mr.  Doughty  became  insupportable — twenty  times  I  quarrelled 
with  her,  taking  his  part  stoutly  against  her  accusations.  One 
evening,  after  one  of  these  accustomed  disputations,  my  hus- 
band said  to  me — 

"  Nell,  we  must  take  a  house  of  our  own  ;  I  can't  live  in  this 
atmosphere  any  longer." 

"Why  can't  you  ?"     I  knew  why,  well  enough. 

"  I  don't  like  your  sister  Kate." 

"  Does  she  poison  the  atmosphere,  my  dainty  sir  ?" 

"  Yes." 

Of  course  I  flew  into  a  rage  and  defended  Kate  with  all  my 
powers.  She  was  my  own  good  sister  then,  and  had  done  every 
thing  to  make  the  house  pleasant  which  it  was  possible  for  her 
-te-oo— I  would  like  to  know  who  would  please  him. 

"  You,  my  dear,"  he  replied. 

The  end  of  the  matter  was,  I  refused  to  go  away  from  my 
father's  house  with  him  ;  said  I  would  not  be  deprived  of  the 
little  comfort  I  now  had  in  the  sympathy  of,  and  association 
with,  my  family  ;  he  had  agreed,  I  reminded  him,  before  our 
marriage,  to  my  remaining  at  home  one  year  at  least — his 
promises  might  pass  for  nothing  with  himself,  they  would  not 
with  me  ;  if  he  chose  to  take  a  house  he  might  do  so,  but  his 
housekeeping  would  be  done  independently  of  me  ;  if  my 
wishes  were  never  to  be  consulted  by  him,  I  should  have  to 
consult  them  myself — that  was  all. 

I  never  gave  him  greater  pleasure,  he  replied  provokingly, 
than  when  I  consulted  my  own  wishes  ;  for  his  part,  he  could 
have  none  in  which  I  did  not  heartily  concur. 

He  admitted  thai  he  had  cordially  agreed  to  my  remaining 


44  PASSAGES   FROM   THE 

at  home  a  year  after  marriage,  but  that  late  experience  had 
slightly  modified  his  views  ;  he  was  not  infallible,  however,  and 
probably  erred  in  judgment — indeed,  he  was  quite  sure  he  did, 
since  I  differed  from  him  ;  he  hoped  I  would  pardon  his  unkind 
suggestion,  and  believe  him  what  he  really  was,  the  most  faith- 
ful and  devoted  of  husbands. 

Amongst  my  weaknesses  was  a  passion  for  emeralds.  Mr. 
Doughty  had  heard  me  express  my  admiration  for  them  many 
a  time.  The  day  following  our  little  rencounter  he  came  home 
an  hour  earlier  than  usual,  seated  himself  on  the  sofa  beside 
me,  and  taking  two  little  parcels  from  his  pocket  and  conceal- 
ing them  beneath  his  hand,  said  playfully — 

"  Which  one  will  you  have,  Nell  ?" 

"  The  best  one  !"  I  replied,  reaching  out  my  hand. 

"  The  better  one,"  he  rejoined  quickly  ;  "  the  best  of  the 
two  is  not  elegant — at  least  it  was  not  till  you  made  it  so." 

I  withdrew  my  hand  and  averted  my  face.  If  he  and  I  had 
been  alone,  I  might  have  taken  the  reproof  more  kindly  ;  but 
Kate  heard  it  all,  as  it  seemed  to  me  she  always  did  every 
thing  that  was  disagreeable.  I  might  have  made  some  angry 
retort,  but  a  visitor  was  just  then  announced — an  old  classmate 
of  Mr.  Doughty's,  whom  I  had  never  seen. 

"  He  is  come  specially  to  pay  his  respects  to  you,"  my  hus- 
band said  as  he  rose  to  join  him.  "  You  will  see  him,  of 
course." 

"  If  it  is  my  lord's  pleasure,"  I  replied  ;  "  bring  him  to  me 
when  it  suits  you." 

Involuntarily  he  put  his  hand  on  my  hair,  and  smoothed  it 
away,  glancing  over  me  at  the  same  time  from  head  to  foot. 
The  motion  and  the  glance  implied  a  doubt  of  my  observance 


MAKRIED   LIFE    OF   ELEANOR   HOMES.  45 

of  external  proprieties,  and  also  I  felt  at  the  moment,  personal 
dissatisfaction  with  myself.  The  interview  was  embarrassed  and 
restrained  ;  I  was  self-conscious  every  moment,  and  crippled 
completely  by  the  knowledge,  that  in  my  husband's  eyes  I  was 
appearing  very  badly. 

I  misquoted  a  familiar  line  from  Shakspeare  ;  expressed  ad- 
miration for  a  popular  author,  and  when  asked  which  of  his 
works  I  read  with  most  delight,  could  not  remember  the  name 
of  anything  I  had  read. 

My  discomfiture  was  completed  when  my  husband  said  apolo- 
getically, "  I  dare  say  that  wiser  heads  than  my  little  Nellie's 
have  been  confused  by  similar  questions — in  truth,  she  is  not 
quite  well  to-day." 

The  old  classmate  related  some  very  amusing  blunders  of  his 
own,  calculated  to  soothe,  but  rasping  my  wounded  feelings 
only  into  deeper  soreness,  and  presently  the  conversation  fell 
into  the  hands  of  the  gentlemen  altogether  ;  and  I  am  sure  it 
was  felt  to  be  a  relief,  by  all  parties,  when  our  guest  an- 
nounced the  expiration  of  the  time  to  which  he  was  unfortu- 
nately limited.  My  husband  walked  down  street  with  him,  and 
during  his  brief  absence  I  wrought  myself  into  a  state  of  un- 
womanly ugliness,  including  dissatisfaction  with  everything 
and  everybody. 

The  words  "  my  little  Nellie,"  which  my  husband  had  used, 
rung  offensively  in  my  ears.  My  little  Nellie,  indeed  !  What 
implied  ownership  and  what  tender  disparagement  ! 

When  my  husband  returned  he  took  no  notice  of  my  ill- 
humor,  but  proceeded  to  his  reading  as  usual.  It  was  never  his 
habit  to  read  aloud  ;  on  this  occasion  I  chose  to  fancy  he  had, 
in  his  own  estimation,  selected  a  work  above  my  appreciation. 


46  PASSAGES   FKOM  THE 

"  There,  Nell,  I  forgot  1"  he  exclaimed  after  a  few  moments 
of  silent  reading,  and  he  threw  into  my  lap  the  little  box  which 
I  had  declined  to  receive.  I  did  not  open  it  immediately,  and 
when  I  did  so  I  expressed  neither  surprise  nor  pleasure,  though 
it  contained  what  I  had  so  much  desired  to  possess — a  pin  set 
with  emeralds. 

"Very  pretty,"  I  said  carelessly,  "for  those  who  can  wear 
such  ornaments  ;  as  for  myself  it  would  only  make  my  plain- 
ness seem  the  plainer  by  contrast."  And  before  the  eyes  of  my 
husband,  who  had  thought  to  make  everything  right  by  its 
purchase,  I  transferred  it  to  my  sister  Kate.  From  that  time 
forth  it  glittered  in  the  faces  of  both  of  us  daily,  but  we 
neither  of  us  ever  mentioned  it. 

It  was  not  many  days  after  this  occurrence  that  Mr.  Doughty 
informed  me  that  he  was  called  suddenly,  by  matters  of  some 
importance  to  him,  to  a  neighboring  State.  He  did  not  say 
us,  but  limited  the  interest  entirely  to  himself — nor  did  he  inti- 
mate by  word  or  act  that  the  necessity  of  absence  involved  any 
regret.  I  inquired  how  long  he  proposed  to  remain  away — not 
when  should  /  expect  him. 

He  was  not  definitely  advised — from  one  to  three  months. 
We  parted  without  any  awakening  of  tender  emotion.  Our 
letters  were  brief  and  formal — containing  no  hints,  on  either 
side,  of  a  vacuum  in  life  which  nothing  but  the  presence  of  the 
other  could  supply. 

I  was  informed  from  time  to  time  that  affairs  protracted 
themselves  beyond  his  expectation,  but  the  nature  of  the  affairs 
1  was  left  in  ignorance  of.  The  prospect  of  staying  at  home  a 
year  added  nothing  to  my  happiness.  Kate  and  I  agreed  no 
better  now  that  we  were  alone  than  before.  I  secretly 


MARRIED   LIFE    OF   ELEANOR   HOMES.  47 

blamed  her  for  my  unfortunate  alienation  from  my  husband  : 
it  was  not  the  importunate  nature  of  his  business  that  detained 
him,  I  was  quite  sure.  I  grew  uneasy,  and  irritable,  wished  to 
have  him  back,  not  for  any  need  my  nature  had,  that  he  alone 
could  answer.  I  wanted  him  to  want  to  come  back — that  was  all. 

Kate  accused  me  of  unfilial  and  unsisterly  preference  for  a 
vulgar  and  heartless  man,  to  my  own  family. 

"  The  dear  old  Nell  was  completely  merged  in  the  selfish 
Doughty,"  she  said,  "  and  she  might  just  as  well  have  no  sister 
for  all  the  comfort  I  was  to  her." 

So  we  kept  apart  a  good  deal,  and  by  keeping  apart,  soon 
grew  apart  pretty  thoroughly.  In  truth  our  natures  had  never 
been  cast  in  the  same  mould,  and  it  was  impossible  that  they 
should  more  than  touch  at  some  single  point  now  and  then. 

At  the  end  of  six  months  a  portion  of  my  fret  and  worry 
had  worked  itself  into  my  face.  My  hair  had  fallen  off  and 
was  beginning  to  have  a  faded  and  neglected  look.  I  was 
careless  about  dress,  and  suffered  my  whole  outer  and  inner 
person  to  fall  into  ruins.  By  fits  I  resolved  to  project  my  gen- 
eral discontent  into  some  one  of  the  reforms,  I  hardly  knew 
which,  when  after  a  day  of  unusual  irksomeness  and  personal 
neglect,  my  husband  unexpectedly  returned. 

He  was  in  perfect  health,  and  rejoiced  in  the  possession  of 
affluent  beard  and  spirits — he  was  really  quite  handsome.  I 
looked  at  him  with  wonder,  admiration,  and  some  pride — kissed 
him  and  said  I  was  very  glad  ;  but  there  was  no  thrill  in  my 
heart — no  tremor  in  my  voice — the  old  fires  of  anger  had  left 
the  best  part  of  my  nature  in  ashes,  I  found.  He  was  sorry  to 
find  me  looking  so  badly — I  must  go  with  him  on  his  next  ad- 
venture and  get  back  my  beauty  again  !  If  I  could  only  see 


48  PASSAGES   FROM  THE 

his  smiling,  blushing  cousin  Jane,  it  would  shame  my  melan- 
choly and  sallow  face  into  some  bloom  !  And  by  the  way,  I 
must  know  her — he  was  sure  I  would  love  her  just  as  he  did — 
she  had  done  so  much  to  make  his  banishment  from  me  delight- 
ful— no,  not  delightful — but  bearable.  He  would  defy  any 
one  to  be  very  miserable  where  she  was.  She  kept  about  her 
under  all  circumstances  such  an  atmosphere  of  cheerfulness 
and  comfort ;  was  so  self-sustained  and  womauly,  aud  yet  as 
capable  of  receiving  pleasure  as  a  child  ;  as  an  example  of  a 
beautiful  and  child-like  trait  in  her  disposition,  he  told  with 
what  almost  pious  care  she  preserved  every  little  trinket  he 
ever  gave  her.  She  would  clap  her  hands  and  laugh  like  a 
very  baby  over  the  least  trifle  bestowed  upon  her. 

I  thought  of  the  emerald  pin,  and  of  (as  doubtless  he  did) 
the  contrast  my  whole  character  presented  to  his  charming 
wonder. 

"  Ah,  me  !"  he  concluded,  and  fell  into  a  fit  of  musing.  I 
did  not  interrupt  him  by  any  poor  attempt  at  cheerfulness  I 
did  not  feel. 

Before  long  I  succeeded  in  coaxing  upon  myself  a  headache — 
slighted  the  advice  proposed,  and  at  nightfall  had  my  pillows 
brought  to  the  sofa,  and  gave  up  altogether. 

I  was  almost  glad  to  be  sick — it  would  revive  in  my  husband 
some  of  the  old  tenderness  perhaps  ;  but  what  was  my  disap- 
pointment when  he  took  up  his  hat  to  leave  the  house. 

"  What,  you  are  not  going  out  to  night  ?"  I  inquired  in 
surprise. 

"  Why,  yes,  my  dear,  why  not  ?" 

"  If  you  ask  why  not,  I  suppose  there  is  no  reason." 

"  Is  there  anything  I  can  do,  or  shall  I  send  the  doctor  ?" 


MARRIED   LITE   OP   ELEANOR   HOMES.  49 

"  No,  there  is  nothing  special  I  need,  but  I  thought  you 
would  stay  at  home  to-night — I  am  unhappy  every  way." 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  but  my  engagement  to-night  is  impera- 
tive— I  promised  Jenny  I  would  immediately  see  some  friends 
of  hers,  here." 

I  hid  my  face  in  my  pillows  and  cried,  and  I  confess  there 
was  some  method  in  my  tears — I  did  not  think  he  would  kave 
me  under  such  circumstances.  I  was  mistaken — he  did. 

"  Have  you  seen  any  house  that  you  thought  would  suit  us  ?" 
I  ventured  to  ask  him  before  long. 

"  No,  I  have  not  been  looking  for  a  house." 

He  did  not  follow  up  my  suggestion,  and  I  added,  as  if  I  had 
but  to  intimate  my  wishes  to  have  them  carried  out,  though  the 
hollowness  of  the  sham  was  appalling — "  I  really  wish  you 
would  look."  He  still  was  silent,  and  I  continued — "Won't 
you  ?" 

He  replied,  evidently  without  the  slightest  interest  in  the 
matter,  "  Why,  yes,  when  I  have  time."  He  paid  no  further 
attention  to  my  request,  however,  and  when  I  reminded  him  of 
it  again,  he  said  he  had  forgotten  it. 

It  seemed  to  me  I  could  not  live  from  one  day  to  another — 
change  would  be  a  relief,  at  any  rate,  and  my  husband's  indif- 
ference to  my  wishes  made  me  importunate  ;  but  from  week  to 
week  he  put  me  off  with  promises  and  excuses,  both  of  which  I 
felt  were  alike  false. 

He  could  not  see  any  places.  "  Inquire  of  your  friends." 
He  had,  and  could  not  hear  of  any. 

"  Why,  I  saw  plenty  of  houses  to  let,  and  was  sure  I  could 
secure  one  any  day — would  he  go  with  me  some  time  ?" 

"  Yes,  certainly  at  his  earliest  convenience.' 

3 


50  PASSAGES   FROM  TUB 

I  awaited  his  convenience,  but  it  did  not  come.  In  very  des- 
peration, I  set  out  myself  ;  but  searching  without  having  fixed 
upon  any  locality,  size  of  house,  or  price  to  be  paid,  was  only  a 
waste  of  time,  I  felt,  and  accordingly  I  wandered  about  the 
streets,  looking  at  the  outsides  of  houses,  and  now  and  then  in- 
quiring the  terms  at  the  door,  but  declining  iu  all  instances  to 
examine  the  premises,  or  take  the  slightest  step  towards  the 
securing  of  a  house. 

"  Had  you  not  better  consider  it  a  little  ?"  Mr.  Doughty  said 
at  length,  as  if  I  had  not  been  considering  it  for  six  months  ! 

He  feared  I  would  find  it  lonesome — he  might  be  from  home 
a  good  deal,  such  was  the  unfortunate  nature  of  his  prospects. 
Where  was  he  going  and  what  for  ? 

He  was  not  going  at  all  that  he  positively  knew  of,  but  his 
affairs  were  in  such  a  state  that  contingencies  might  arise  at  any 
time,  that  would  demand  his  absence  for  a  few  weeks  or 
months. 

"  A  happy  state  of  affairs  I"  I  said  with  womanish  spite  ; 
"  I  suppose  one  of  the  contingencies  is  your  charming  cousin 
Jenny  1" 

He  would  only  reply  to  my  foolish  accusation  by  saying  it 
was  quite  unworthy  of  my  generous  nature — I  wronged  myself 
and  him,  and  also  the  sweetest  and  most  innocent  little  creature 
in  the  world. 

For  some  days  nothing  was  said  about  the  house  ;  but  I  was 
a  woman,  and  could  not  maintain  silence  on  a  disagreeable 
subject,  so  I  renewed  it  with  the  importunate  demand  to  know, 
once  for  all,  whether  or  not  we  were  ever  to  keep  house.  Thus 
urged,  he  consented  to  go  with  me  in  search  of  a  house. 

The  air  was  biting  on  the  day  we  set  out — the  streets 


MARRIED  LIFE   OF  EIEANOR  HOMES.  51 

slippery  with  ice,  and  gusts  of  sharp  snow  now  and  then  caused 
women  to  walk  backward,  and  bury  their  faces  in  their  muffs. 

We  turned  into  streets  and  out  of  streets,  just  as  it  happened 
— Mr.  Doughty  did  not  care  where  he  looked — anywhere  I 
chose  ; — sometimes  we  passed  whole  blocks  of  houses  that 
seemed  eligible,  without  once  ringing  a  bell :  he  did  not 
suggest  looking  here  or  there,  made  no  objection  to  terms,  and 
suggested  no  proposals.  Now  we  turned  into  a  by-street  and 
examined  some  dilapidated  tenement,  and  now  sought  a 
fashionable  quarter,  and  went  over  some  grand  mansion  to  be 
let  for  six  months  only,  and  furnished  ! — an  exorbitant  rent 
demanded,  of  course. 

The  whole  thing  was  so  evidently  a  sham,  that  I  at  last 
burst  into  tears  and  proposed  to  go  home.  Mr.  Doughty 
assented,  and  with  my  face  swollen  and  shining  with  the  cold, 
my  hands  aching  and  my  feet  numb,  I  arrived  there  in  a 
condition  of  outraged  and  indignant  feeling  that  could  go  no 
further. 

I  comforted  myself  as  I  best  could,  for  nobody  comforted 
me,  and  my  husband,  monopolizing  the  easy-chair  and  a  great 
part  of  the  fire,  opened  the  letters  that  awaited  him. 

When  he  had  concluded  the  reading  of  the  first  one — 
addressed,  as  I  observed,  in  a  woman's  hand — he  said  suddenly, 
"  Come  here,  Nell,  and  sit  on  my  knee." 

I  did  so. 

"  What  should  you  think  of  taking  the  house  in street  V1 

"  I  should  like  it  very  well." 

"  I  think  that  would  suit  ns — room  for  ourselves,  and  a 
visitor  now  and  then,  perhaps." 

I  did  not  sit  on  his  knee  any  longer  ;  I  felt  instinctively  that 


52  PASSAGES    FROM   THE 

the  letter  he  had  just  read  was  from  the  charming  cousin,  and 
that  the  prospect  of  having  her  for  a  guest  had  changed  the 
aspect  of  affairs. 

The  house  was  taken  at  once,  and  Mr.  Doughty  informed  me 
before  long  that  I  had  a  great  happiness  in  prospect — that  of 
knowing  the  little  cousin  I  had  heard  him  speak  of. 

She  came  almost  before  we  were  settled  ;  impossible,  thought 
I,  that  I  should  be  jealous;  the  idea  of  affinity  between  her  and 
Mr.  Doughty  was  so  ridiculous.  She  was  white,  short,  and  fat 
as  a  worm  in  a  chestnut,  and  almost  as  incapable  of  thought. 
The  flax-like  hair  was  so  thin  you  could  see  her  head  beneath 
it  all  the  time  ;  her  cheeks  and  chin  trembled  with  fatness  ;  her 
eyes  were  of  the  faintest  blue,  and  cloudy  with  vague  apprehen- 
sion ;  her  arms  hung  stiff  and  round  as  two  rolling  pins,  and 
her  pink  and  blue  silk  dresses  were  pinned  up  and  fringed  out, 
and  greasy  :  but  she  was  amiable — too  simple-hearted  and 
indolent  to  be  otherwise,  indeed. 

"  She  is  a  child,  you  see,"  said  my  husband,  "  and  I  bespeak 
for  her  childish  indulgences  ;  you  must  not  be  surprised  to  find 
her  arms  around  my  neck  any  time — playful  little  kitten,  that 
she  is." 

I  was  not  so  much  surprised  to  find  her  big  arms  about  his 
neck,  as  by  the  fact  which  gradually  broke  in  upon  me,  that 
they  had  power  to  detain  him  from  the  most  important  duties. 

Towards  her  he  was  gentle  and  indulgent  to  the  tenderest 
degree — towards  me  exacting,  severe,  and  unyielding. 

If  I  fretted,  he  was  surprised  that  I  could  do  so  with  so 
patient  an  example  before  me  ;  if  I  forbore  complaint,  he  gave 
me  no  praise  ;  I  had  done  nothing  more  than  I  ought  to  do. 
If  I  .slighted  or  blamed  Jenny,  as  I  was  sometimes  driven  to  do, 


MABKIED   LIFE    OF   ELEANOR   HOMES.  53 

he  was  surpiised  and  indignant  that  I,  a  reasonable  woman, 
should  treat  a  mere  child,  quite  iueapable  of  defence  or  retalia- 
tion, so  cruelly. 

By  turns,  I  resorted  to  every  device  :  grave  and  reserved 
dignity,  playful  badinage,  affected  indifference,  rivalry  in  dress 
and  manner,  pouting,  positive  anger,  threats  of  divorce  and 
separate  maintenance — all  would  not  do.  I  ruined  thereby 
the  slender  stock  of  amiability  and  fair  looks  I  began  with,  and 
gained  nothing .  Now  I  went  home  for  a  few  days,  and  now  I 
affected  illness  ;  but  I  gained  nothing,  for  of  all  lost  things 
most  difficult  to  be  regained,  lost  affection  is  the  most  hope- 
less. 

This  state  of  feeling  could  not  last  always  ;  the  nerves  of 
sensibility  could  not  be  laid  bare  and  left  bare  without  becoming 
indurated,  and  by  degrees  I  became  incapable  of  receiving  or  of 
giving  enjoyment.  In  our  treatment  of  one  another,  my  husband 
and  I  fell  into  a  kind  of  civility  which  was  the  result  of  indifference. 
Before  folks  we  said  "  my  dear  ;"  and  when  we  were  alone — 
but  we  never  were  alone — we  had  ceased  to  have  any  of  those 
momentous  nothings  to  communicate  which  require  to  be  done 
without  observation.  I  had  no  longer  any  motive  in  life — duty 
was  tiresome,  and  pleasure  a  mask  that  smothered  me  ;  love 
was  a  fable,  and  religion,  I  knew  not  what — nothing  that 
comforted  me,  for  it  can  only  enter  the  heart  that  is  open  to 
the  sweet  influences  of  love. 

In  a  fit  of  the  most  abject  depression  I  swallowed  poison,  and 
lying  down  on  my  sofa  awaited  death  with  more  interest  in 
the  process  of  its  approaches  than  I  had  felt  for  months.  The 
pain  and  the  burning  were  easier  to  bear  than  I  had  borne 
many  and  many  a  tune  ;  gradually  the  world  receded,  my  eyes 


54  MARRIED  LIFE   OF   ELEANOR   HOMES. 

closed,  and  a  struggle  shook  my  whole  frame — death  had 
indeed  got  hold  of  me.  A  terrible  uoise  filled  my  ears  ;  my 
dead  and  stiffening  body  seemed  to  drop  away  ;  I  sat  upright 
and  saw  about  me  all  familiar  and  household  things.  On  the 
floor  beside  me  lay  the  picture  of  Mr.  Doughty  which  I  had  been 
holding  in  my  hand  when  I  fell  asleep — the  noise  of  its  falling 
had  waked  me. 

"  Then  it  had  been  only  a  dream,  after  all  ?" 

11  Why,  to  be  sure  ;  did  yon  not  see  all  along  that  such 
things  could  not  have  really  happened  ?" 


THE     OUTCAST. 


SATURDAY  night  has  come,  and  the  last  sunstreaks  have  drawn 
themselves  down  the  snowy  hills  of  Clovernook,  and  where  they 
lately  shone,  the  darkness  is  fallen  and  unfolding  very  fast. 
The  chickens  are  gone  to  roost  among  the  cold,  comfortless 
boughs  of  the  trees  nearest  the  barn  ;  the  cows  are  milked,  and 
in  most  places  the  work-horses,  feeding  in  the  stable,  have  had 
an  extra  currying,  preparatory  to  Sunday  morning,  when  they 
are  expected  to  walk  soberly  and  straightly  to  the  village  church, 
drawing  after  them,  in  the  newly-washed  and  tar-smelling  wagon, 
father  and  mother,  and  all  the  children,  from  the  eldest  sou — 
as  proud  of  his  darkening  beard,  and  "  boughten"  coat  and 
hat,  as  he  will  be  in  years  to  come  of  more  stylish  appareling  or 
senatorial  honors  ;  and  the  little  girl  on  her  mother's  knee,  more 
pleased  with  the  brass  buttons  on  her  father's  coat,  and  her 
own  red  shoes,  than  she  will  be,  perhaps,  with  her  point  laco 
and  shining  brocade,  when  a  few  years  hence  she  shall  dance 
at  the  president's  ball. 

Another  week  has  gone  ;  great,  in  its  little  events,  to  the 
unambitious  people  who  are  now  done  with  its  hopes  and  fears, 
its  working  and  planning — with  their  tending  of  sick  beds,  and 
making  of  wedding  gowns — as  great  to  them  as  the  largest 
experience  to  the  largest  mind  ;  and  who  knows  but  that  in  the 

65 


56  THE    OUTCAST. 

final  summing  up  of  good  and  evil,  the  highest  glory  will  be  set 
down  .to  the  account  of  those  who  have  thought  always  of  the 
pride  and  place  of  this  world,  as  the  child  does  of  the  marvels 
of  the  fairy  story  ;  for  what,  after  all,  can  be  got  out  of  this 
life  but  usefulness  ?  With  all  our  racking  of  the  soul,  we 
cannot  solve  the  problem  of  fore-ordination  and  free  will,  of 
good  and  evil,  of  life  and  death.  I  am  not  sure  that  they  are 
not  wisest,  as  well  as  best,  who  are  "  contented  if  they  may 
enjoy  the  things  which  others  understand,"  and  let  alone  the 
mysteries  which  all  effort  to  unfold  but  folds  anew. 

It  was  about  the  middle  of  February,  and  along  the  northern 
elopes  of  the  hills,  at  the  roots  of  big  trees,  and  close  in  the 
shadow  of  the  fences,  lay  the  skeleton  of  the  great  winter  snow. 
For  all  their  searching,  the  sheep  had  not  found  a  single  patch 
of  green  grass  as  yet,  and  the  mother  cow  had  brought  home 
to  the  stable  her  young  calf,  without  waiting  to  be  invited,  so 
sharply  went  the  winds  along  woods  and  meadows. 

The  smoke  issued  briskly  from  chimney-tops,  and  the  heaps  of 
dry  wood  near  the  doors,  and  the  lights  shining  pleasantly  out 
along  the  frozen  ground,  told  of  quiet  and  comfort  within. 
Here  and  there  an  axe  was  busy  at  the  woodpile,  or  a  lantern 
shone  over  the  dry  sunflower  stocks  by  the  garden  fence,  as 
some  less  orderly  farmer  than  the  rest  went  from  house  to  barn, 
to  attend  some  little  chore  forgotton  or  neglected. 

Mostly,  however,  it  was  quiet,  and  cold,  and  dark,  except  at 
one  or  two  windows  of  each  house,  and  the  snow  and  frozen  earth, 
ground  together,  powdered  the  lonesome  road  before  the  late 
travellers.  Of  these  there  was,  on  the  night  I  write  of,  not 
more  than  one  to  be  seen  ;  at  any  rate,  it  is  with  one  only  my 
story  has  to  do.  If  you  had  seen  him  you  would  not  have 


THE    OUTCAST.  57 

noticed  him  much,  I  suppose,  they  who  saw  him  did  not  ;  and 
yet  he  seemed  very  tired,  and  bent  under  the  bundle  Jjiung 
across  his  shoulder,  as  if  he  had  trudged  a  long  way  ;  for  this 
bundle  was  not  large,  and  it  could  not  have  been  the  weight  of 
it  that  so  crooked  his  shoulders.  You  would  have  thought  him 
old,  doubtless,  for  his  face  was  browned  and  careworn,  and  a 
slouched  hat  and  tangly  hair  and  beard  gave  him  the  air  of 
years.  You  would  probably  have  said,  if  you  had  chanced  to 
look  out  of  your  own  room,  and  observed  him  shuffling  his  tired 
way  through  the  grey  chilly  moonlight,  "  there  goes  a  man  with 
a  sack  on  his  back  ;  I  wonder  if  he  knows  where  he  is  going  and 
what  after  ?"  for  so  we  see  our  fellows,  brothers  and  friends, 
going  burdened  and  bent,  past  our  warm  hearths  every  day,  and 
to  us  they  are  only  as  men  with  sacks  on  their  backs. 

Once  or  twice  he  stopped  where  the  lights  shone  brightest, 
as  if  he  would  go  in  ;  but  having  cut  the  air  with  his  disen- 
gaged hand,  as  if  he  were  done  with  some  vagary,  weut  on,  his 
feet  leaving  a  trail  in  the  snow  and  dust,  crooked  as  if  he  were 
purposeless.  And  so,  alas,  he  was  ;  and  wondered,  as  much  as 
any  one,  as  he  pulled  his  hat  lower  and  turned  thought  intro- 
spective, where  he  was  going,  and  what  for.  Ah,  that  was  the 
worst  of  it  !  footsore  and  burdened  as  he  was,  he  had  no  object, 
not  even  a  shapeless  outline  for  his  future.  He  might  be  going 
into  the  lap  of  the  best  fortune  in  the  world  :  such  things  have 
been  done,  so  he  has  heard,  and  he  smiles  at  the  bright  sugges- 
tion ;  but  reduce  it  to  a  where,  and  when,  and  how,  and  the 
possibility  loses  all  probability  ;  it  is  not  at  all  likely  any  good 
luck  will  happen  to  him  ;  everybody  says  he  deserves  no  better 
fate  than  he  has,  and  he  supposes  he  does  not.  He  had  an 
object  once,  which  was  to  get  away  from  everybody  that  knew 

3* 


58  THE    OUTCAST. 

him — from  his  mother  who  sometimes  cried  and  sometimes  scolded 
about  him  1  from  his  father,  who  said  he  was  going  down  hill  as 
fast  as  he  could,  and  the  sooner  he  got  to  the  bottom  the  better 
for  his  family  and  himself  too  ;  and  from  the  black  eyes  that 
looked  scornfully  upon  him  the  last  time  he  dared  look  up  into 
their  searching  brightness. 

This  last  humiliation,  more  perhaps  than  anything  else,  made 
him  rise  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  some  weeks  ago,  bundle 
together  a  few  necessary  effects,  and  steal  like  a  thief  away 
from  the  house  where  he  was  born — unblest  of  his  mother,  and 
with  no  "  God-speed  you,"  from  his  honest  old  father.  But  back 
of  the  scorn  of  the  black  eyes,  the  complaining  of  the  mother, 
and  the  sentence  of  the  father,  there  are  intemperance,  and 
idleness,  and  profligacy,  that  brought  all  about  ;  why  these 
should  have  been  he  doesn't  know,  he  did  not  mean  to  be  a  bad 
son  nor  an  untrue  lover  ;  he  doesn't  say  he  was  ;  he  doesn't  really 
think  he  was  ;  but  he  knows  other  folks  say  so,  and  so,  trying  to 
be  indifferent  to  what  men  and  women  think  of  him,  to  all  the 
past  and  all  the  future,  he  changes  the  load  on  his  shoulder, 
and  trudges  on. 

About  half  a  mile  down  a  narrow  lane,  that  turns  out  from 
the  main  road,  he  sees  a  house,  small  and  apparently  rude,  but 
with  light  shining  so  brightly  and  cheerfully  through  all  the 
windows,  he  is  almost  persuaded  to  turn  that  way  ;  he  doesn't 
know  why  nor  what  for,  only  it  seems  for  a  moment  that  he 
has  got  home.  The  watch  dog  sees  him  from  his  post  at  the 
gate,  and  sends  him  forward  with  a  suspicious  and  unfriendly 
growl.  He  fancies  he  hears  a  song  in  the  cottage,  it  may  be 
the  wind  in  the  treetops  ;  he  won't  stop  to  see,  for  what  are 
songs  or  lights  to  him  1  He  is  half  disposed  to  lie  down  on  the 


THE    OUTCAST.  59 

frozen  ground,  at  the  wayside  ;  but  it  is  cold  and  hard  ;  and  he 
has  always  known  the  comfort  of  a  warm  bed — he  cannot  quite 
do  that  yet.  He  passes  a  good  many  snug  farmhouses,  but 
the  front  doors  are  close  shut,  and  he  feels  just  as  if  they  had 
been  closed  to  keep  him  out.  But  by  and  by  he  is  very  tired, 
and  his  diffidence  grows  less  and  less  under  the  necessity  of  rest; 
he  doesn't  much  care  where  it  is,  nor  who  accords  it,  but  he  must 
have  rest,  somewhere  ;  that  is  the  strongest  feeling  he  has.  The 
wind  blows  against  him  harder  and  colder  all  the  time,  and  he 
concludes  that  has  become  his  enemy  too,  as  long  ago  he  settled 
into  a  conviction  that  mankind  were  leagued  against  him.  'Tis 
a  pity  that  he  himself  is  his  own  worst  enemy  ;  but  he  cannot 
see  it,  and  that  is  a  pity  too.  Presently  he  sees  a  commodious 
house,  brightly  painted,  and  with  lights  streaming  from  the 
front  windows,  right  before  him  ;  the  curtain  is  drawn  aside,  and 
he  discovers  a  man  in  black  and  goodly  apparel,  reading  in  a 
large  book,  it  is  the  Bible,  he  thinks  ;  he  is  very  tired  and 
hungry  and  must  have  food  and  rest.  Without  more  ado  he 
approaches  the  door  and  thumps  with  his  stick  confidently  and 
boldly.  No  hearty  voice  answers,  "  Come  in  !"  and  as  he 
crouches,  in  dim  expectancy,  he  hears  the  crackling  of  the  wood 
in  the  fireplace,  and  the  prattling  of  children.  The  door  opens 
soon,  carefully  and  narrowly,  and  the  man  in  the  black  coat 
looks  out  distrustfully  and  asks,  "  What  do  you  want  ?" 

"  I  want  to  stay  all  night,"  answers  the  traveller. 

The  door  is  pushed  round  a  little  and  the  man  in  the  black 
coat  says,  "We  have  no  accommodation  for  travellers." 

"  But  I  am  tired  and  hungry,"  urges  the  stranger. 

"  We  are  sorry,"  says  the  man  in  the  black  coat,  speaking 
for  himself  and  all  the  house  ;  and  so  closes  the  door. 


60  THE    OUTCAST. 

The  tired  man  thinks  he  hears  the  key  turn,  but  he  is  not  quite 
sure.  His  senses  are  bewildered,  and  he  hardly  knows  whether 
or  not  he  saw  a  dish  of  apples,  and  another  of  cakes,  on  the 
table  before  the  fire,  but  he  thinks  he  did,  and  that  he  also  saw 
a  prim-looking  woman,  in  a  silk  gown,  shaking  her  head  at  the 
man  in  the  black  coat,  while  he  held  the  door  so  cautiously 
open. 

The  house  was  not  like  a  farmhouse,  and  he  is  almost  sure  it 
is  the  parsonage  ;  but  he  is  not  quite  sure  about  anything,  poor 
fellow.  He  is  sure  enough,  however,  to  anathematize  all  piety 
as  hypocrisy,  and  he  says  with  an  oath  he  doesn't  care  for  all  the 
preachers  in  the  world  ;  he  will  get  to  heaven  as  soon  as  any 
of  them  ;  and  he  wishes  the  white  neckcloth  of  the  man  in  the 
black  coat  might  choak  him  that  very  instant.  And  then  he 
imagines  how  he  would  take  possession  of  the  parsonage,  and 
sit  by  the  warm  fire  and  eat  apples  and  cakes,  and  never  pay 
one  cent  for  preaching  as  long  as  he  lived.  One  thing  he  would 
do,  he  knows,  he  would  entertain  poor  travellers. 

He  has  climbed  a  long  hill,  and  gone  over  a  hollow,  where 
there  is  a  one-arched  wooden  bridge,  and  where  he  hears  no 
tinkling  of  water  ;  even  that  has  shut  itself  away  from  him, 
under  ice  ;  he  almost  expected  a  murderer  to  come  out  from 
beneath  the  dark  arch,  but  there  did  not  ;  and  now  he  ascends 
another  hill,  abrupt  and  high  ;  and  as  he  nears  the  summit  he 
sees  a  good  many  lights  shining,  and  presently  becomes  aware 
that  he  is  entering  a  village.  A  number  of  covered  wagons 
almost  block  up  the  road  before  him  ;  each  is  loaded  with  boxes, 
and  barrels,  and  farming  implements,  full  as  it  can  be,  and  from 
among  them,  or  from  under  each  wagon,  looks  out  a  huge  dog — 
the  faithful  guardian  while  the  teamster  sleeps.  Immediately 


THE    OUTCAST.  61 

overhead  creaks  the  sign  of  entertainment  ;  he  has  found  a 
door  open  at  last.  He  is  so  glad  to  throw  down  his  budget, 
and  seat  himself  at  the  fire,  that  he  heeds  little  the  fumes  of 
whisky  and  tobacco  with  which  the  room  is  reeking.  The 
idlers  there  make  him  welcome,  and  offer  him  cigars  and  punch, 
and  in  return  for  their  kindness,  he  grows  merry  and  talks 
freely  and  indiscreetly  ;  sometimes  profanely  ;  and  so  the  night 
wears  into  midnight,  and  the  merry-making  has  become  a  ca- 
rousal. We  will  not  linger  over  it,  it  is  too  sad  to  see  manhood 
so  debasing  itself  ;  intellect  burning  itself  out  in  evil  passion, 
and  the  likeness  of  the  angel  becoming  more  grovelling  than 
the  brute. 

Sunday  morning  comes  ;  the  heavens  are  full  of  clouds,  and 
of  winds  ;  very  rough  and  cold  they  are  blowing  everywhere  ; 
but  roughest  and  coldest  through  the  leafless  locust  trees  that 
grow  along  the  fence  of  the  Clovernook  graveyard  ;  so  thinks 
the  poor  fellow  who  lies  beneath  one  of  them,  his  stick  by  his 
side,  and  his  bundle  for  a  pillow — all  the  wild  merriment  that 
filled  the  tavern  last  night,  dwarfed  to  a  drunken  dreaming. 
The  people  ride  by  to  church,  one  wagon  load  after  another, 
and  now  and  then  some  one  says,  "  There  is  a  drunken  man  ;" 
but  many  pass  without  seeing  him  at  all,  and  no  one  stops  to 
see  whether  he  is  alive  or  dead.  He  is  lying  nearly  opposite 
the  narrow  lane,  where  he  paused  last  evening,  seeing  the  light 
in  the  rude  house,  half  a  mile  away.  If  he  were  roused  up  he 
would  not  know  how  nor  why  he  came  to  be  where  he  is,  nor 
do  I  myself  know,  unless  it  were  that  Providence  directed  his 
staggering,  when  he  was  found  to  be  inebriate  and  penniless, 
and  driven  away  from  the  tavern  where  he  had  paid  his  last 
sixpence  for  his  present  imbecility. 


62  THE    OUTCAST. 

Heavy  and  mournful  through  the  dull  air  sounds  the  church 
bell,  like  a  summons  to  penance  rather  than  a  cheerful  call  to 
thanksgiving  ;  the  troubled  sleeper  hears  it  and  thinks  dooms- 
day has  come,  and  groans  and  turns  on  his  comfortless  pillow. 
A  stout  grey  horse,  with  an  eye  that  looks  kinder  and  nobler 
than  has  been  given  to  some  reasonable  creatures,  climbs 
steadily  the  steep  hill  in  the  lane,  and  trots  briskly  forward, 
the  neat  little  wagon  behind  him  rattling  in  a  loud  and  lively 
key  ;  out  into  the  main  road  he  comes,  and  turns  toward  the 
call  of  the  bell  ;  but  as  he  passes  the  graveyard  he  looks  round 
as  if  seeing  the  man  lying  there  and  pitying  him. 

"  Dear  me  I"  exclaims  the  woman  who  is  driving  the  grey 
horse  ;  and  she  draws  up  the  reins  and  is  on  the  ground  in  a 
moment  ;  so  is  the  young  woman  who  sat  beside  her,  and  she 
indeed  is  the  first  to  climb  the  clay  bank  and  reach  the  dead 
man,  as  she  thinks  he  is  ;  and  truly  he  is  dead — to  all  that  a 
man  should  be  alive  for. 

"  Oh,  mother,  mother,"  she  cries,  clapping  her  hands  joyously, 
"  he  is  only  asleep,  after  all  1  I  am  so  glad  I  What  makes 
him  lie  here,  mother  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,  my  poor  child,"  answers  the  -good  woman, 
wiping  her  eyes  ;  "  I  am  afraid  he  has  been  drinking  at  the 
tavern  ;"  and  stooping  over  him,  she  shakes  him  by  the  shoul- 
der. 

"  Yes,  mother,  I  will  get  up  in  a  minute,"  he  answers,  with- 
out opening  his  eyes. 

"  How  funny,"  says  the  young  girl,  laughing  aloud  ;  "  he 
thinks  you  are  his  mother." 

"Mercy,"  says  the  deacon,  peeping  from  the  front  of  his 
dearborn,  "  if  there  is  not  Mrs.  Goforth  and  her  daughter  Elsy, 


THE    OUTCAST.  63 

talking  with  a  drunken  man  ;  don't  children,  don't  any  of  you 
look  at  her."  And  he  touches  his  horse  smartly  on  the  flank, 
and  does  not  apparently  hear  Mrs.  Goforth  call  to  him. 

She  is  at  a  loss  what  to  do,  and  well  she  may  be  ;  for  though 
she  has  tugged  and  lifted  the  man  to  a  sitting  posture,  he  can- 
not retain  it  for  a  moment,  unsupported  by  her  ;  how  then  is 
he  to  stand  or  walk  ?  The  air  is  bitter  cold,  and  he  may 
freeze  to  death  if  she  leaves  him.  She  asks  him  who  he  is,  and 
how  he  came  there  ?  but  he  says  he  does  not  know  ;  and  pulls  at 
her  shawl,  and  looks  in  her  face  like  a  bewildered  child  ;  and 
repeats  that  he  will  go  as  soon  as  he  can  walk,  that  he  is  sure 
he  is  not  harming  anybody. 

"But  you  are  harming  yourself,  my  son,"  says  the  good 
woman  ;  "  that  is  the  trouble." 

"  Why,  it  is  not  any  trouble  to  you,"  replies  the  young  man, 
"because  what  1  do  ain't  nothing  to  nobody  ;"  and  he  relapses 
again  into  his  horrible  unconsciousness. 

The  bells  were  already  done  ringing  ;  but  Mrs.  Goforth  was 
not  a  woman  to  go  to  church  and  leave  a  man  freezing  to  death 
by  the  roadside  ;  she  could  not,  to  use  her  own  words,  have 
any  comfort  of  the  meeting  whatever  ;  and  though  she  did  not 
like  to  stay  away  from  her  place,  she  thought  it  was  right  to 
do  so  under  the  circumstances  ;  so,  having  turned  about  her 
grey  horse,  she  brought  the  little  wagon  as  close  to  the  clay 
bank  as  she  could,  and  she  and  Elsy,  half  dragging  and  half 
lifting  the  poor  outcast,  got  him  into  it,  in  some  way. 

It  had  come  to  the  ears  of  the  parson,  before  the  hour  for 

service,  that  a  man  was  lying  drunken  by  the  road-side  ;  and 

the  fact  afforded  a  text  for  the  severest  denunciation  of  sinners, 

.  especially  of  this  sort.     He  did  not  once  reflect,  let  us  hope, 


64  THE    OUTCAST. 

how  large  a  share  he  had  in  bringing  his  fellow-mortal,  and 
fellow-sinner  too,  to  the  condition  and  exhibition  of  infamy 
which  he  so  unmercifully  condemned. 

The  meaning  of  the  vacant  seat  of  Mrs.  Goforth  was  hardly 
construed,  for  in  the  preacher's  mind,  when  taken  in  connection 
with  other  absences  of  late,  it  argued  conclusively  a  growing 
indifference  to  the  Lord's  sanctuary.  This  was  wrong,  and 
uncharitable,  as  the  reader  sees  ;  but  none  of  the  congregation 
saw  it  then,  or  felt  it  then.  Good  Mrs.  Goforth  was  casting 
her  bread  upon  the  waters,  with  no  thought  of  future  reward  ; 
but  after  many  days,  as  we  shall  see,  reward  came. 

Monday  morning  it  was  still  cloudy,  and  not  only  so,  but 
snowing — a  little  fine  icy  snow,  that  struck  sharply  like  sand 
against  Mrs.  Goforth's  small  windows  ;  for  she  lived  in  a  small 
house,  and  the  windows  were  not  much  larger  than  a  lady's 
pocket  handkerchief.  It  was  but  a  cabin,  indeed,  built  of  logs, 
very  rudely  ;  and  humble  as  it  was,  and  small  as  it  was,  Mrs. 
Goforth  would  have  thought  herself  rich  to  own  it.  Yet  she 
did  not  own  the  house,  nor  the  meadow,  nor  the  wood  adja- 
cent, nor  much  in  all  the  world,  except  a  heart  that  was  large, 
and  truthful,  and  loving.  She  did  not  complain,  however,  that 
she  did  not  own  a  great  house  and  a  hundred  or  more  acres  of 
land,  like  most  of  her  neighbors  ;  she  was  cheerful,  under  the 
necessity  of  hiring  a  small  lot,  and  milking  her  own  cow,  and 
feeding  her  own  chickens,  and  working  in  the  garden.  Now 
and  then  she  procured  a  few  days'  work,  but  for  the  most  part 
she  and  Elsy  managed  to  get  along  alone.  And  very  comfor- 
tably they  did  get  along  ;  no  young  woman  in  the  neighbor* 
hood  looked  tidier  than  the  widow's  daughter,  and  surely  none 
was  prettier  ;  in  summer,  no  dress  in  all  the  church  was  whiter 


THE     OUTCAST.  65 

than  hers,  and  no  hat  was  so  nice  and  so  tasteful,  albeit  it 
lacked  the  flowers  and  the  rich  ribbons  of  some  there.  She 
was  a  dreadfully  giddy  young  girl,  'to  be  sure,  and  her 
mother  had  often  to  recall  her  eyes  to  her  hymn-book  from 
a  new  dress  or  shawl  which  for  the  first  time  had  made  its 
appearance  in  a  neighboring  pew ;  perhaps  sometimes  from  cast- 
ing upon  some  young  man  an  admiring  glance ;  so  the  older 
and  more  staid  young  ladies  said,  at  least,  though  Elsy  stoutly 
denied  it.  She  did  not  care  whether  the  young  men  saw  her 
or  not,  she  often  said,  but  that  she  could  not  help  seeing  them 
when  they  were  in  the  same  house  with  her.  And  anybody 
who  saw  her  blue  laughing  eyes,  would  have  readily  believed 
she  could  not  help  it. 

Jacob  Holcom,  for  that  was  the  name  of  our  purposeless 
traveller,  awoke  to  self-consciousness  early  on  Monday  morning 
— perhaps  with  the  tinkling  of  the  snow  on  the  window- 
panes,  perhaps  with  the  remorseful  stirrings  of  his  own  mind, 
and  the  dreamy  memory  of  a  face  that  looked  kindly  upon 
him. 

First,  he  saw  the  whitewashed  joists  above  him,  and  felt  that 
he  was  not  at  home  in  his  own  chamber,  which  was  large  and 
substantial ;  and  as  he  sunk  back  on  his  pillow,  his  eye 'caught 
the  neat  stitching  in  the  pillow-case,  he  wondered  whose  hand 
did  it,  and  involuntarily  linked  it  with  one  he  had  dreamed  of 
as  loosening  something  that  choked  him,  when  he  lay  on  a  very 
cold  hard  bed  somewhere  :  he  could  not  tell  when  or  where. 
He  could  not  tell  much  better  where  he  was  now ;  that  he  was  in 
the  flesh  he  was  sure,  for  his  hands  had  the  mark  of  the  axe  and 
the  hoe-handle  ;  but  the  room  was  new  to  him,  and  how  he 
came  there  passed  all  his  recollection.  Raising  himself  on  one 


66  THE    OUTCAST. 

elbow,  he  peeped  curiously  about,  pleased  as  a  child  with  a 
new  baby-house. 

The  second  thought  was  of  his  unfitness  for  the  place — all 
was  so  neat — there  was  such  an  atmosphere  of  purity  about 
him — and  the  bed  itself  was  so  sweet  and  so  white — what 
business  had  he  in  it  ?  There  was  mud  on  his  face  and  in  his 
hair,  that  had  come  from  some  sorry  resting-place,  of  which  he 
had  but  a  faint  recollection  now. 

He  could  not  do  much  in  the  way  of  personal  renovation  ; 
but  all  he  could  do,  he  did,  brushing  his  soiled  garments  and 
hair,  and  drawing  upon  his  small  bundle  for  such  clean  articles 
as  it  contained.  This  done,  he  felt  quite  at  a  loss,  and  looking 
out  into  the  snow-storm,  half  wished  he  were  in  it,  rather  than 
in  a  place  of  which  he  was  so  unworthy. 

Mrs.  Goforth  and  Elsy  had  been  an  hour  astir  ;  the  cow  was 
milked,  the  fire  burning  on  the  hearth,  the  table  spread  near 
it,  and  the  coffee  sending  up  its  pleasant  steam  with  the  smoke, 
when  the  footsteps  of  the  unknown  traveller  arrested  their 
attention  ;  and  a  soft  rap  on  the  door  and  the  announce- 
ment that  breakfast  was  waiting,  fell  strangely  enough  on 
the  ears  of  the  bewildered  Jacob ;  it  was  just  as  if  his  own 
mother  had  called  him,  except  that  she  had  not  spoken  his 
name. 

More  ashamed  than  he  had  ever  been  in  his  life,  he  obeyed 
the  call,  and  with  downcast  eyes  and  a  blushing  cheek,  pre- 
sented himself,  expecting,  notwithstanding  the  mild  call,  to 
receive  summary  dismissal,  with  severe  reproof.  But  a  cordial 
good-morning,  and  an  invitation  to  partake  of  the  breakfast 
that  awaited,  almost  caused  him  to  think  he  was  still  dreaming, 
and  in  his  hesitation,  he  behaved  so  awkwardly  that  Elsy  would 


THE    OUTCAST.  67 

have  laughed  in  spite  of  herself  another  time,  but  now,  she  felt 
not  only  pity  for  the  stranger,  but  in  some  sort  responsible  for 
him.  He  did  not  look  like  an  evil-disposed  person  to  her  ;  she 
did  not  believe  he  was  one  ;  and  she  did  not  care  what  any- 
body said,  she  would  not  believe  it.  Now  no  one  had  said  any- 
thing about  the  young  man  that  Elsy  knew  of,  and  it  was 
strange  her  thoughts  should  run  before  and  suppose  an  accusa- 
tion, and  take  up  a  defence  ;  but  such  was  the  fact,  and  such 
are  often  the  curious  facts  with  which  love  begins  his  impreg- 
nable masonry. 

As  Jacob  partook  of  the  breakfast  (without  much  appetite 

'   we  may  suppose)  he  kept  inventing  stories,  one  after  another, 

with  which  to  make  himself  appear  better  than  he  was,  in  the 

event  of  being  questioned  by  his  hostess  in  reference  to  his  past 

life,  which  questioning  he  momently  expected. 

At  first  he  thought  he  would  say  he  was  turned  out  of  his 
father's  house  for  a  supposed  fault,  of  which  he  was  guiltless, 
and  that  he  had  travelled  till  quite  exhausted  by  cold  and  hun- 
ger, when,  in  a  fit  of  temporary  delirium,  he  had  lain  down  by 
the  road-side,  and  that  that  was  the  last  he  knew  ;  he  would 
offer  to  pay  for  his  entertainment  after  breakfast,  and  affect 
surprise  at  finding  his  money  gone  ;  and  say  that  it  had  been 
stolen  from  him  during  his  insane  sleep.  But  Mrs.  Goforth 
talked  of  the  late  storm,  and  of  her  fears  that  the  apples  and 
peaches  would  have  been  killed — of  her  plans  for  gardening 
and  farming — in  short,  of  her  own  affairs  altogether  ;  so  the 
lies  Jacob  had  invented  died  in  his  heart.  If  she  had  breathed 
one  word  of  blame  of  him,  they  would  have  come  out,  black  as 
they  were. 

His  next  plan  was  to  modify  the  story  somewhat  ;  he  would 


68  THE    OUTCAST. 

blame  himself  a  little  more,  his  parents  a  little  less  ;  and  he 
would  say  he  laid  down,  because  he  was  too  tired  to  go  on, 
and  growing  numb  with  the  cold,  had  fallen  asleep  ;  that  he 
discovered  that  morning  his  money  was  all  gone,  though  how 
he  had  lost  it,  he  did  not  know.  This  gave  him  a  little  more 
satisfaction,  and  he  was  just  on  the  point  of  commencing  an 
exculpation,  unasked,  when  Elsy  brought  to  the  table  some 
warm  cakes  she  had  been  baking,  and  offered  him  ;  he  felt 
obliged  to  refuse  :  and  when  with  her  own  hand  she  laid  one 
on  his  plate,  he  felt  the  second  story  all  going  to  pieces. 

He  now  wished  heartily  the  meal  was  concluded,  and. 
resolved  to  steal  away  the  first  moment  he  could  do  so,  without 
saying  a  word.  He  had  no  money  with  which  to  pay  for 
his  entertainment,  and  what  were  apologies  and  thanks  ? 
Nothing  ;  he  would  steal  away  unobserved,  and  somewhere, 
and  some  time,  try  to  amend. 

He  did  not  know  when  nor  where,  nor  once  ask  himself,  why 
then  and  there  would  not  be  as  good  a  time  and  place  as  there 
would  ever  be. 

When  the  breakfast  was  done,  Mrs.  Goforth  gave  him  the 
best  chair  and  the  warmest  corner  ;  and  having  told  Elsy  to 
run  over  to  farmer  Hill's,  and  see  if  he  could  not  spare  his  son 
John  to  chop  for  them  that  afternoon,  she  went  herself  to  the 
"  milk-house,"  a  little  cellar  that  lay  under  a  mound  of  snow, 
a  few  steps  from  the  door. 

The  opportunity  Jacob  had  longed  for  was  come  ;  he  stole 
back  for  the  bundle  he  had  left,  took  it  up,  and  there  was 
nothing  in  the  way  of  escape,  nothing  but  a  natural  nobility  of 
soul  that  was  not  all  gone  yet.  There  was  the  white  bed, 
Elsy's  own  bed,  he  knew,  which  she  had  given  to  him  ;  and 


THE    OUTCAST.  69 

there  was  the  pot  of  winter-flowers,  blooming  bright  in  his 
face  ;  and  there  was  the  Bible  on  the  snowy  cover  of  the  table  ; 
all  mute,  to  be  sure,  but  they  seemed  to  rebuke  the  purposes 
he  had  formed,  nevertheless.  No,  he  would  not,  and  could  not, 
steal  away  like  a  thief,  which  he  was  not.  Was  not  the  house, 
and  all  that  was  in  it,  trusted  in  his  hands  ?  If  there  had 
been  any  suspicion  manifested  toward  him,  it  would  be  easy  to 
go  ;  but  he  could  not  return  basely  the  frankness  and  confidence 
he  had  met.  He  would  see  Mrs.  Goforth — tell  her  truly  his 
destitute  condition,  nothing  else — give  her  his  thanks,  which  was 
all  he  could  give,  and  somewhere  seek  for  honest  employment. 

So  resolving,  and  wishing  the  resolutions  were  executed,  he 
sat,  when  his  hostess  returned,  followed  almost  immediately  by 
Elsy,  her  cheeks  blushing  red  with  the  rough  kisses  of  the  wind, 
and  her  eyes  sparkling,  notwithstanding  the  disappointment  she 
had  met.  John  Hill  had  gone  to  town  an  hour  before,  and 
who  was  to  chop  their  wood  she  could  not  tell ;  but  she 
looked  at  Jacob  when  she  said  so  in  a  way  that  implied  a  sus- 
picion of  his  ability  to  solve  the  problem. 

Jacob  ventured  to*  say  he  would  like  to  work  long  enough  to 
pay  for  his  entertainment,  if  he  dare  ask  such  a  favor  ;  it  would 
not  be  asking,  but  doing  a  favor,  Mrs.  Goforth  said  ;  and, 
throwing  down  his  bundle,  the  young  man  took  up  the  axe. 

The  old  dog  that  had  kept  a  suspicious  eye  on  him  all  the 
morning,  arose  now,  and  with  some  hesitation  followed  him  to 
the  woodpile,  whence  the  sturdy  strokes,  issuing  presently,  made 
agreeable  music  in  the  widow's  house.  That  day,  and  the  next, 
and  the  next,  he  kept  at  work,  and  that  week,  and  the  next, 
faithfully  he  performed  all  the  duties  intrusted  to  him  ;  but  he 
spoke  no  word  concerning  his  past  life. 


70  THE    OUTCAST. 

Many  of  the  neighbors  expressed  surprise  that  Mrs.  Goforth 
should  pick  up  a  man  hi  the  high  road,  and  hire  him  to  do  her 
work  ;  they  could  not  account  for  it,  except  by  saying  she  was 
a  strange  woman  ;  they  hoped  she  might  not  be  paid  for  her 
foolishness  by  finding  her  horse  goue  some  morning,  and  her 
hired  man  with  it.  But  when  she  was  seen  going  to  church, 
and  this  hired  man  riding  in  the  wagon  with  her  own  daughter, 
there  was  such  commotion  in  the  congregation  as  had  not 
been  known  there  for  many  a  year.  Some  of  the  women,  in- 
deed, passed  by  the  pew  where  the  widow  and  daughter  sat, 
pretending  not  to  see  them,  and  such  sayings  as  that  "  birds 
of  a  feather  flock  together,"  and  "  a  woman  is  known  by  the 
company  she  keeps,"  and  the  like,  were  whispered  from  one  to 
another,  all  having  reference  to  Mrs.  Goforth  and  the  drunken 
man,  as  everybody  called  Jacob.  But  the  good  woman  had 
little  regard  for  what  her  neighbors  thought,  so  long  as  her 
own  heart  did  not  accuse  her,  for  "  what  have  I  done,"  she 
said,  "except  practice  what  they  preach  ?" 

All  the  truth  about  the  young  man,  after  his  arrival  in  the 
neighborhood,  was  speedily  bruited  about  'and  lost  nothing  as 
it  went.  Elsy  believed  not  one  word  of  it,  for  a  nicer  or  a, 
smarter  person  than  Jacob*  Holcom  she  had  never  seen 
in  her  life.  If  she  could  believe  it  was  true  she  would 
not  talk  with  Jacob  so  freely  ;  but  she  knew  better  ;  and  even 
if  it  were  true,  she  thinks  those  who  talk  of  it  might  find  some 

• 

faults  nearer  home  to  attend  to. 

It  was  about  the  middle  of  the  sugar-making  season — night 
and  raining.  Jacob  had  been  busy  in  the  sugar  camp  two  or 
three  days,  so  busy  that  he  had  scarcely  been  at  the  house  ex- 
cept for  the  doing  of  necessary  chores.  The  day  we  write  of 


THE    OUTCAST.  71 

he  had  not  been  at  home  since  morning  ;  he  must  be  very  tired, 
and  very  hungry,  and  very  lonesome,  Elsy  thinks  ;  and  she 
goes  to  the  window  often,  to  see  whether  he  is  coming,  but 
she  does  not  see  anything  of  the  torchlight  gleaming  over  the 
hill — and  Jacob  is  used  to  make  a  torch  of  hickory  bark  to 
light  him  on  his  way  home  at  night — so  she  keeps  standing 
and  looking  out  into  the  dark,  and  the  rain,  hoping  her  mother 
will  say,  "  You  had  better  run  across  the  meadow,  Elsy,  and  see 
whether  some  accident  has  not  happened  to  Jacob  ;"  but  her  mo- 
ther keeps  at  her  knitting,  by  the  fireside,  and  doesn't  say  any- 
thing of  the  sort;  her  heart  has  not  fluttered  her  steady  common 
sense  into  unnatural  fears.  At  last  she  can  bear  the  darkness 
and  rain  no  longer  ;  who  knows  she  thinks,  but  that  Jacob  may 
have  had  another  of  those  dreadful  fits,  and  so  fallen  into  the 
fire,  or  the  boiling  water.  "  Mother,"  she  says,  "  it  is  not 
raining  much  now  :  I  think  I  will  take  Carlo,  and  run  over  the 
hill  and  see  if  I  can  tell  whether  Jacob  is  in  the  sugar  camp  ; 
if  I  see  him  from  the  hill  top  I  will  come  straight  back." 

"  Very  well,  my  child,"  replies  Mrs.  Goforth  j  "  but  I  don't 
think  anything  has  happened  to  him." 

Elsy  was  not  long  in  tossing  a  shawl  over  her  head,  nor  long 
in  reaching  the  hill-top  ;  she  did  not  once  think  of  darkness 
and  rain  ;  one  moment  she  paused  and  stood  on  tiptoe,  looking 
earnestly  into  the  great  red  light  that  shone  against  the  trees, 
and  flickered  along  the  ground  of  the  sugar-camp.  She  did 
not  see  Jacob,  and  therefore  sped  on  faster  than  the  wind. 

Before  the  stone  furnace,  where  the  sugar  water  was  boiling, 
a  rude  hut  had  been  constructed,  which  afforded  protection 
from  the  storm  ;  and  here,  seated  on  a  low  bench,  watching 
the  jets  of  flame  as  they  broke  from  the  main  body  of  fire 


7Z  THE    OUTCAST. 

quivered  a  moment,  and  went  out,  sat  Jacob  Holcom,  when 
Elsy,  her  hair  dripping  with  rain,  and  her  face  pale  with  fright, 
presented  herself  before  him. 

"  What  can  have  happened  ?"  he  asked  in  surprise,  taking 
her  hand  and  drawing  her  to  a  seat  before  the  fire. 

Elsy's  cheek  grew  red  when  she  found  that  she  was  come  of 
a  foolish  errand,  and  she  stammered  the  truth — her  fears  for 
him — as  the  best  excuse  she  could  make.  It  was  Jacob's  turn 
to  be  confused  now,  and  taking  up  a  handful  of  the  straw  that 
carpeted  his  rude  hut,  he  pulled  it  to  pieces,  his  eyes  bent  on 
the  ground,  stepping  aside  till  he  was  quite  out  of  the  shelter. 

"  Oh,  don't  stay  in  the  rain,"  said  Elsy,  "  sit  here  by  me, 
there  is  room  enough." 

Jacob  sat  down,  but  kept  his  face  averted  from  the  gentle, 
confidant  eyes  of  his  companion.  "  I  am  sure  you  have  not 
told  me  true,"  said  Elsy,  "  and  that  you  are  not  well.  Oh,  if 
you  should  have  another  of  those  dreadful  fits  !" 

Well  might  she  have  thought,  poor  simple-hearted  child, 
from  the  strange  behavior  of  the  young  man,  that  a  fit  was 
about  to  seize  him,  for  as  she  looked  up  in  his  face,  he  covered 
it  with  his  hands,  and  she  presently  saw  the  tears  coming  out 
between  his  fingers. 

All  at  once  she  divined  the  truth,  she  thought  she  had 
wounded  him  by  speaking  of  the  fit,  for  people  said  it  was  a 
drunken  fit,  and  Jacob  might  fancy  she  believed  it. 

How  to  begin  she  did  not  know,  but  to  sit  in  silence  and  see 
Jacob  weeping  like  a  child,  was  not  to  be  thought  of,  so  she 
stammered  in  some  way  that  she  did  not  know  as  anybody  had 
said  anything  against  him,  and  if  they  had  she  did  not  believe 
it,  she  did  not  care  what  it  was.  And  the  more  she  said 


THE     OUTCAST.  73 

she  did  not  care  what  was  spoken  against  him,  and  that 
she  believed  he  was  all  that  was  good  aud  true,  the  more 
discomforted  the  young  man  seemed.  If  she  had  joined  her 
denunciations  to  the  rest,  he  could  have  denied  their  justice 
perhaps  ;  but  to  be  thought  so  much  better  than  he  was,  made 
him  more  sadly  humble,  -more  truly  good,  than  he  had  ever 
been  in  his  life. 

He  assured  Elsy,  in  a  broken  voice,  that  he  was  quite  well, 
but  that  he  was  not  worthy  of  the  interest  she  had  taken  in 
him,  though  he  thanked  her  for  it. 

"  Poor  Jacob,"  thought  she,  "  I  am  sure  his  mind  is  wander- 
ing ;  M  not  worthy,  indeed  !  then  I  don't  know  who  is."  And 
she  went  herself  out  into  the  rain  to  mend  the  fire,  aud  after- 
ward arranged  her  shawl  against  the  crevices  of  the  wall  by 
which  Jacob  sat,  so  that  the  wind  and  rain  should  not  blow 
against  him. 

"  Sit  here  yourself,"  said  the  sugar-maker,  rising  from  the 
seat,  and  drawing  Elsy  toward  it ;  "  do,  I  pray,  for  I  cannot  ; 
I  would  rather  stand  out  in  the  rain." 

"  Q  Jacob,  what  do  you  mean  ?"  she  asked  in  affright ; 
"  sit  down  beside  me  ;  the  bench  is  long  enough,  and  tell  me 
what  it  is  troubles  you."  And  there,  the  rain  beating  around 
them,  and  the  fire  brightening,  and  fading,  and  brightening  again, 
Jacob  told  all  the  story  of  his  life,  sparing  himself  no  whit. 

But  if  he  has  done  wrong  sometimes,  thought  Elsy,  what  of 
that  ?  I  suppose  every  one  has  some  faults,  and  if  everybody 
has  turned  against  him  I  am  sure  there  is  the  more  need  I 
should  not.  In  fact,  she  believed  he  made  his  vices  greatly 
larger  than  they  were  ;  but  even  if  he  did  not,  it  was  so  mag- 
nanimous to  confess  them,  and  to  come  back  to  virtue.  Verily, 


74  THE    OUTCAST. 

she  admired  and  loved  Jacob  more  than  ever  before.  When 
he  came  to  tell  of  the  black  eyes  that  had  made  all  the  woods 
about  his  home  brighter  than  the  May  sunshine,  and  how  their 
loving  beams  changed  into  sharp  arrows,  and  pierced  him 
through  and  through,  Elsy's  little  foot  tapped  smartly  on  the 
ground,  and  her  own  eyes  looked  as  indignant  as  it  was  in  their 
power  to  do,  for  in  her  heart  she  felt  that  the  woman  who 
could  scorn  Jacob,  no  matter  what  the  provocation,  did  not 
deserve  to  have  a  lover.  It  is  to  be  supposed  that  Jacob  saw 
all  this,  for  such  thoughts  shine  right  in  one's  face  as  plainly  as 
written  words  ;  nevertheless,  to  make  assurance  doubly  sure,  no 
doubt,  he  said,  "  and  you,  Elsy,  would  have  spurned  me  just 
as  she  did,  if  I  had  been  a  lover  of  yours  !" 

"  How  can  you  say  so,  Jacob  ?"  she  replied,  "  I  should  have 
felt  that  you  needed  me  most  when  that  you  were  not  strong 
enough  in  yourself  to  resist  temptation." 

"  Dear  Elsy  !"  he  said,  and  the  bench,  which  a  little 
while  before  was  not  big  enough  for  two,  might  have  accom- 
modated three  very  well  as  he  spoke.  But  there  is  no  need  to 
repeat  what  more  they  said  ;  suffice  it,  they  forgot  to  make  a 
torch  to  light  them  home,  each  confidently  believing  the  full 
moon  was  shining  in  all  her  splendor,  they  saw  the  way  so 
well.  . 

When  Jacob  rapped  next  at  the  parsonage,  it  was  not  to 
entreat  a  night's  lodging,  and  the  door  opened  so  wide,  and 
the  parson  smiled  so  blandly,  he  could  hardly  believe  it  was 
the  same  house  or  the  same  man  he  had  seen  before  ;  and 
when  he  sat  next  in  the  pew,  at  church,  with  Mrs.  Goforth  and 
Elsy,  not  Elsy  Goforth  any  more,  there  was  nobody  in  all  the 
house  that  did  not  see  them,  and  smile,  and  shake  hands. 


THE    OUTCAST.  75 

Jacob  never  had  another  fit,  and  the  manly  dignity  and 
propriety  of  his  conduct  soon  won  for  him,  not  only  the  esteem 
and  admiration  of  all  the  neighborhood,  but  led  the  people 
to  believe  they  had  wronged  him  in  their  first  accusation  ;  and 
they  bestowed  upon  Mrs.  Goforth  the  reputation  of  having  a 
gift  for  curing  fits,  and  many  were  the  applications  for  advice 
she  received  in  consequence.  When  she  assured  them  that  she 
practised  no  art,  and  that  simply  doing  as  she  would  be  done 
by,  was  all  her  wisdom,  there  was  invariably  disappointment 
and  sorrow,  so  hard  is  it  to  understand  the  hardest  of  human 
possibilities,  and  the  most  wonder-working.  Five  years  after 
the  mysterious  cure,  Jacob  Holcom  owned  one  of  the  prettiest 
little  farms  about  Clovernook,  and  in  all  that  time  Elsy  and  he 
had  never  had  any  disagreement,  except  when  he  affirmed  that 
she  was  an  angel,  which  she  always  stoutly  denied  ;  but  she 
was  a  good  and  true  wife,  and  that  is  but  a  little  lower  than 
an  angel. 


HASTY   WORDS,  AND   THEIR   APOLOGY. 


"  GET  out  of  my  way  !"  said  Luther  Brisbane,  pushing  the 
gate  against  the  little  girl  whose  face  was  pressed  on  it.  He 
was  just  coining  home  from  school,  two  miles  away,  and  in 
no  very  amiable  humor — having  made  bad  recitations  that  day, 
and  failed  of  receiving  his  customary  honors. 

"  I  thought  the  gate  opened  the  other  way,"  answered  the 
child,  modestly,  and  stepping  confusedly  aside. 

"  There  is  but  one  right  way  to  do  anything,"  replied  the 
boy,  "  and  this  is  the  right  way  to  open  the  gate  ;  and  shoving 
it  roughly  against  the  little  girl,  he  went  hastily  down  the 
smoothly-gravelled  walk,  without  once  again  turning  his  eyes 
towards  her. 

She  looked  after  him,  feeling  sorry  for  the  offence  she  bad 
given,  but  quite  at  a  loss  what  to  say  ;  and  when  he  disap- 
peared round  the  corner  of  the  house,  her  slim  little  fingers 
were  pulling  at  one  another,  and  her  brown  eyes  slowly  filling 
with  tears. 

"  Well,  my  son,"  said  Mrs.  Brisbane,  looking  up  from  her 
work,  and  smiling,  as  he  entered  the  room  where  she  sat,  and 
dashed  himself  into  a  chair,  sachel  in  hand,  and  hat  lowered 
over  his  brows. 

He  made  no  reply  to  her  pleasant  salutation  ;  but  fixed  his 

T8 


HASTY  WOEDS,  AJfD   THEIB   APOLOGT.  77 

grey  eyes  sharply  and  demandingly  upon  her.  Mrs.  Brisbane 
was  well  used  to  that  ungracious  demand,  but  she  was  Luther's 
mother,  and  humored  the  selfish  caprices  of  her  son,  as  fond 
mothers  are  likely  to  do. 

She  put  down  her  work  at  once,  and  slipping  the  sachel  from 
Luther's  arm,  hung  it  in  its  proper  place,  and  then  removing 
his  hat,  smoothed  away  the  heavy  black  hair  from  his  forehead, 
and  said  she  would  have  the  supper  prepared  at  once,  she  was 
sure  he  must  be  very  tired  and  hungry.  "  Yes,  as  tired  and 
hungry  as  I  can  be,"  said  Luther,  lopping  his  head  heavily 
against  his  mother,  and  never  once  thinking  she  might  be  tired 
too.  He  was  the  only  son,  and  his  parents,  not  a  little  proud 
of  him  (and  indeed  there  was  a  good  deal  in  him  to  be  proud 
of),  had  given  way  to  his  natural  strong  will,  till  it  had  grown 
to  stubbornness,  a  stubbornness  quite  too  hard  to  melt,  and 
which,  if  subdued  at  all,  must  needs  be  broken  by  some  terribly 
sharp  blow.  Perhaps  those  little  fingers,  in  their  workings, 
were  gathering  strength  for  such  a  blow — we  shall  see. 

Luther  saw  that  it  was  a  little  girl's  dress  his  mother  was 
sewing  on  ;  but  he  was  too  proud  to  seem  interested  in  little 
things,  and  without  appearing  to  notice  her  occupation,  threw 
himself  at  full  length  on  the  sofa,  and  taking  up  book  after 
book,  went  over  the  day's  studies  in  good  earnest.  But  it  was 
not  his  nature  to  forget  himself  long,  or  allow  others  to  forget 
him  ;  and  suddenly,  without  regard  to  his  mother's  preoccupa- 
tion, he  took  off  his  waistcoat,  and  throwing  it  at  her  feet,  said, 
"  That  must  have  two  buttons  sewed  on,"  which  meant,  of 
course,  "  You,  my  mother,  who  should  have  nothing  to  do  but 
attend  to  my  wants,  must  sew  them  on." 

For  once  she  did  not  allow  herself  to  be  interrupted,  but  kept 


78  HASTY  WORDS,  AND   THEIR   APOLOGY. 

on  steadily  stitching  the  ruffle  to  the  short  sleeve  of  the  blue 
dress  she  was  making. 

"  I  say,  mother,  did  you  hear  ?"  said  Luther,  holding  his  book 
aside,  and  fixing  his  grey  eyes  upon  her  after  the  old  fashion. 

"  Yes,  my  son,"  she  replied,  "  but  I  can't  do  it  just  now." 

"Why  can't  you?" 

Mrs.  Brisbane  said  simply  that  she  was  busy — perhaps 
Luther  thought  she  would  explain  what  she  was  busy  about, 
and  why  the  work  was  urgent  ;  but  she  did  not,  and  pushing 
the  curtain  back,  further  and  further,  as  the  light  grew  dim, 
and  lifting  the  sewing  a  little  closer  to  her  eyes,  kept  on. 
Luther  would  not  for  the  world  ask  his  mother  what  she  was 
doing — he  was  quite  above  such  trifling  interests,  or  wished 
to  be  thought  so  ;  but  try  as  he  would,  he  could  not  suppress 
the  wonder  as  to  whether  the  dress  was  for  the  little  girl  he 
had  seen  at  the  gate  ;  and,  if  so,  why  it  was  for  her  ;  and  why 
indeed,  she  was  there.  With  every  shadow  that  crossed  the 
door  he  glanced  aside  from  the  page,  but  he  saw  not  the  little 
girl  he  looked  to  see. 

Presently  he  might  have  been  seen  coming  round  the  corner 
of  the  house,  whistling  carelessly,  and  looking  for  nothing  in 
particular — certainly  not  for  the  little  girl,  for  scarcely  did  he 
turn  his  head  towards  her. 

She  was  sitting  on  the  border  of  grass  at  the  edge  of  the 
walk  close  by  the  gate,  where  Luther  had  left  her,  and  with 
one  hand  was  pulling  the  curl  out  of  her  brown  hair,  while  the 
other  rested  on  the  head  of  the  big  watch-dog  that  lay  with  his 
speckled  nose  half  buried  in  the  turf  at  her  feet. 

Luther  mounted  the  steps  of  the  portico,  and  looking  in  all 
directions  but  where  the  dog  was,  whistled  for  him  loudly — per- 


HASTY    WORDS,  AND   THEIR   APOLOGY.  79 

haps  to  arrest  the  attention  of  the  little  girl  ;  but  her  brown 
eyes  looked  steadily  at  the  ground  ;  and  when  the  dog,  slipping 
his  head  from  beneath  her  hand,  trotted  down  the  walk,  she 
remained  quiet,  looking  on  the  ground  all  the  same,  only 
betraying  that  she  felt  herself  observed,  by  pulling  her  scanty 
skirts  over  her  bare  feet. 

Luther  petted  and  scolded  the  dog  by  turns,  but  without 
eliciting  any  notice  from  the  child  ;  he  then  took  his  play-fel- 
low's ear  in  one  hand,  aud  raced  up  and  down  the  walk,  close 
to  her  feet,  but  she,  turning  slightly  aside,  picked  out  the  grass, 
spear  by  spear,  never  once  lifting  her  brown  eyes. 

She  had  gone  to  the  gate  to  meet  and  welcome  him  home  ; 
he  had  given  her  the  unceremonious  greeting  recorded,  and  no 
second  friendly  overture  would  she  make.  Luther  had  found 
his  match  :  half  way  down  the  walk  he  stopped  suddenly, 
exclaiming,  "  Oh,  I  have  found  something  beautiful  ;  whoever 
comes  for  it  may  have  it."  Now,  there  was  no  one  to  come 
except  the  child  at  the  gate  ;  but  he  had  not  called  directly  to 
her,  and  she  would  not  go.  Luther  now  sat  down  on  the  bank 
and  fixed  his  grey  eyes  on  the  little  girl  (for  he  was  not  used  to 
be  so  disregarded),  but  in  vain  were  all  his  looks  of  displeasure 
when  she  would  not  see  them. 

He  was  sorry  in  his  heart  for  what  he  had  said,  but  he  would 
not  openly  acknowledge  it ;  and  modulating  his  voice  to  some- 
thing like  entreaty,  he  said,  "  Come  here  and  see  what  I  have 
found." 

"  It  is  nothing  that  belongs  to  me,"  the  child  answered,  for 
the  first  time  lifting  up  her  eyes. 

Encouraged  by  the  mildness  of  her  voice,  he  added,  authori- 
tatively, "  I  tell  you  to  come  and  see." 


80  HASTY   WORDS,  AND   THEIR   APOLOGY. 

"  I  will  not,"  answered  the  little  girl,  tossing  the  curls  from 
her  bare  brown  shoulders,  and  returning  his  gaze. 

"  Well,"  said  Luther,  "  if  you  won't  come  for  it,  you  shan't 
have  it — that's  all  ;"  and  he  affected  to  put  something  in  his 
pocket. 

"  I  don't  want  what  is  not  mine,"  she  replied. 

"  But  how  do  you  know  that  it  is  not  yours  ?" 

"  Because,"  said  the  child,  wiping  her  eyes  with  her  hand, 
"  I  had  nothing  to  lose." 

Luther  regarded  her  more  attentively  now,  and  saw  that  she 
did  not  look  as  if  she  had  much  to  lose — her  dress  was  faded 
and  outgrown  so  much,  that,  try  as  she  would,  she  could  not 
make  the  scanty  skirt  stay  over  her  bare  brown  feet.  One  by 
one  the  tears  fell  from  her  eyes  slowly  down  her  cheeks,  and 
with  each  that  fell  the  boy  took  a  step  towards  her.  He  had 
not  spoken  as  yet,  however,  when  the  gate  opened,  and  Mr. 
Brisbane  entered.  He  brushed  aside  the  brown  tangles  that 
had  fallen  down  the  little  girl's  cheeks,  gave  her  a  flower  which 
he  had  in  his  hand,  and  led  her  down  the  walk  towards  the 
house,  saying  to  Luther  as  they  came  where  he  was  standing, 
"  This  is  to  be  your  playmate  hereafter,  my  son  ;"  and  as  he 
spoke  he  joined  the  hands  of  the  two  little  folks,  telling  the  girl 
that  that  was  his  son,  and  his  name  was  Luther  ;  and  the  boy, 
that  the  girl's  name  was  Almira  Curtiss. 

"  Myrie — my  mother  called  me  Myrie,"  said  the  little  girl. 

"  But  it  is  not  right,  for  all  that,"  said  the  boy. 

Myrie  spoke  not  ;  but  her  fingers  loosened  their  hold  of  the 
boy's  hand  ;  and  though  they  entered  the  house  side  by  side,  it 
was  in  dissatisfied  silence  on  the  part  of  both. 

Thus  much  of  the  first  acquaintance  of  the  lover  and  lady,  as 


HASTY   WORDS,  AXD   THEIE   APOLOGY.  81 

they  were  to  be  hereafter.  Not  far  away  from  the  substantial 
and  comfortable  home  of  good  Mr.  Brisbane  (for  he  was  a 
good  and  exceedingly  benevolent  man),  there  had  lived — and 
the  day  previous  to  the  opening  of  our  story,  died — a  widow, 
whose  only  wealth  was  her  virtues  and  her  little  Myrie.  When 
Mr.  Brisbane  had  prayed  at  her  dying  bed-side,  she  had  said, 
"  What  shepherd  will  take  care  of  my  little  lamb  till  the  heav- 
enly shepherd  calls  her  ?"  and  he  had  laid  his  hand  on  the 
drooping  head  of  the  little  girl,  and  comforted  the  mother  with 
the  assurance  that  the  orphan  should  not  be  forgotten. 

And  the  funeral  was  over,  and  the  mother  laid  to  rest — to 
that  deep,  deep  rest,  to  which  she  had  gone  gladly — the 
promise  had  been  kept  ;  and  Myrie  had  opened  her  brown  eyes 
wonderingly  to  feel  the  kiss  of  a  stranger  on  her  cheek. 

The  door  of  the  empty  and  poor  little  house  where  she  was 
born,  and  where  all  the  nine  years  of  her  life  had  been  passed, 
was  closed  behind  her  ;  and  in  a  pretty  carriage,  drawn  by  gay 
sleek  horses,  she  was  carried  to  a  new  home — a  very  fine  one 
as  she  then  thought.  So  came  the  meeting  of  the  littte  folks — 
the  poor  orphan  and  the  rich  man's  son. 

When  Myrie  had  been  living  two  years  at  Mr.  Brisbane's, 
she  went  one  day  to  pick  berries  a  good  way  from  the  house. 
When  she  came  near  the  hedge  where  the  blackberries  grew, 
she  saw  on  the  next  side-hill  a  boy  not  much  older  that  herself, 
binding  sheaves  of  wheat  in  the  sunshine.  Sometimes  he 
stopped  to  pick  the  briers  from  his  fingers  or  his  feet,  for  he 
wore  no  shoes,  and  was  indeed  in  all  respects  poorly  clad.  He 
did  not  sing  or  whistle  as  he  bound  up  the  bundles,  but  stooped 
along  the  hill-side  as  though  work  was  his  doom.  Myrie 
stopped  quite  still  to  look  at  him — his  patched  trousers,  and 

4* 


82  HASTY   WORDS,  AND   THEIR   APOLOGY. 

torn  hat,  and  tanned  and  bleeding  feet,  drew  her  sympathy  ; 
and  if  she  had  done  as  her* heart  inclined,  she  would  have  put 
down  her  basket  and  assisted  him  for  an  hour  or  two  at  his 
tiresome  work. 

It  was  so  cool  and  pleasant  where  she  was,  for  the  wild 
grape-vines  were  looped  from  limb  to  limb  along  the  hedge 
where  the  briers  grew,  that  she  every  now  and  then  turned  to 
observe  the  poor  tired  worker  in  the  hot  sunshine. 

Her  basket  was  not  yet  half  full  when  the  twittering  and 
fluttering  in  the  leaves  overhead  were  greatly  increased,  a 
sudden  gust  of  wind  turned  the  leaves  all  wrong-side  out,  and 
a  heavy  black  shadow  ran  along  the  hill,  chasing  the  sunshine 
away.  She  ran  out  of  the  hedge  to  see  if  the  sun  was  going 
down,  it  was  so  dark  ;  and  taking  off  her  hood,  turned  her  face 
towards  the  sky,  where  the  blackness  was  becoming  dense. 
There  was  a  flash  of  blinding  light  and  a  thunder-peal  that 
seemed  for  a  moment  crashing  the  sky,  and  then  went  rumbling 
and  muttering  into  silence. 

Plash,  plash  in  her  face  came  the  heavy  rain  drops. 

The  little  boy  threw  down  the  bundle  he  was  binding,  and 
bending  forward  as  he  ran,  came  towards  the  hedge. 

"  Here,  little  girl,"  he  said,  as  he  parted  the  heavy  tangles 
of  leafy  vines  that  roofed  a  scrubby  tree,  and  drooped  around 
it  almost  to  the  ground  :  "  come  in  here,  and  the  rain  will 
never  touch  you." 

She  was  quick  to  avail  herself  of  the  offered  shelter,  and  in 
a  moment  the  two  children  were  sitting  side  by  side  on  a  mound 
'of  turf,  listening  half  afraid  and  half  delighted,  to  the  music  of 
the  rain  on  the  broad  green  leaves  above  them. 

"  Don't  be  afraid,"  the  boy  would  say,  again  and  again,  after 


HASTY   WOKDS,  AXD   THEIR    APOLOGY.  83 

the  subsiding  of  the  sharp  thunder  and  lightning  :  but  though 
he  said  so  often,  "  Don't  be  afraid,"  he  was  greatly  awed,  if  not 
fearful,  and  with  every  flash  uplifted  his  hands — appealing 
involuntarily  for  protection. 

Presently  the  rain  found  its  way  through  the  leafy  roof,  and 
the  curls  of  Myrie  were  full  of  it  ;  but  the  violence  of  the  storm 
was  past  now,  and  little  cared  the  children  for  the  plashing  of 
the  bright  drops  on  their  heads,  or  in  their  faces.  It  was 
natural  they  should  begin  to  talk  about  going  home  as  the  storm 
subsided,  and  then  it  was  that  the  homes,  and  afterward  the 
names  of  the  strangers,  became  known  to  each  other.  Charles 
Robinson  was  the  name  of  the  lad — he  had  no  father,  nor 
mother,  nor  other  friend,  he  said — he  was  lately  come  to  the 
neighborhood  to  seek  his  fortune,  and  chanced  to  be  at  the 
time  in  the  employ  of  the  farmer  who  owned  the  adjoining 
wheat  field.  He  brushed  the  rain  drops  carefully  from  his 
worn  hat,  saying,  half  sadly  though  jocularly,  that  he  should  be 
very  sorry  to  have  it  spoiled. 

Myrie  told  how  poor  she  had  been,  and  how  poor  she  was 
then,  except  for  the  kindness  of  the  good  man  with  whom  she 
lived,  for  she  felt  that  her  pretty  bright  dress  contrasted  with 
the  old  soiled  clothes  of  the  boy,  and  she  knew  that  he  felt  it 
too,  and  in  the  gentle  goodness  of  her  heart,  tried  to  make 
their  positions  as  nearly  equal  as  she  could — for  Myrie  was  not 
proud  or  willful,  except  to  those  who  towards  her  were  proud 
and  self-willed. 

Charley  smiled,  for  he  felt  the  kindness,  and  for  a  moment  the 
dew  came  to  his  eyes  ;  but  having  twisted  off  a  handful  of  grass 
that  grew  up  pale  and  tender  in  that  shady  bower,  by  way  of 
diverting  his  thoughts,  he  brushed  the  rain  drops  from  the  thick 


84  HASTY    WORDS,  AND   TIIEIK    APOLOGY. 

curls  that  fell  along  his  forehead,  and  parting  the  viny  curtains, 
stepped  resolutely  out  into  the  sunshine — for  the  clouds  were 
breaking  up,  and  hedge  and  wheat  field,  and  the  wet  woods 
close  by,  were  all  shining  in  a  flood  of  splendor.  The  birds 
were  singing  in  full  chorus,  hopping  from  ground  to  tree,  and 
from  limb  to  limb,  for  their  exuberance  of  joy  would  not  let 
them  remain  quiet.  "  Come,  Myrie,"  called  Charley,  "  and  I 
will  help  you  fill  your  basket  before  I  go  back  to  my  work." 

"  But  you  will  lose  the  time,"  answered  Myrie,  glad  of  com- 
panionship, yet  at  the  same  time  mindful  of  the  lad's  interest. 

"  Oh,  no  matter,  I  can  work  by  the  moonlight — I  meant  to 
do  so,  at  any  rate." 

"  What  for  ?»  asked  Myrie. 

Charley  laughed  gayly,  and  said,  "  To  finish  the  field's  work, 
to  be  sure — what  else  should  I  do  it  for  ?" 

"  I  thought,  perhaps,"  said  Myrie,  half  ashamed  to  place  the 
sordid  calculation  beside  the  generous  impulse  of  the  boy — "  I 
thought  perhaps,  you  would  get  more  money." 

Charley  laughed  again,  and  said,  "  that  some  way  or  other 
money  slipped  right  through  his  hands  when  he  had  it,  and 
that  he  believed  he  was  just  as  well  off  without  a  cent  as  with 
it;"  and  treading  carefully,  for  the  briers  were  sharp,  and  his 
feet  bare,  he  made  his  way  to  where  the  berries  were  thickest, 
and  Myrie's  basket  was  presently  heaped  almost  up  to  the 
handle. 

On  the  hill-side,  opposite  the  wheat  field,  she  turned  as  she 
went  towards  home  and  saw  Charley  bending  along  the  stubble; 
he  looked  up  and,  with  a  wave  of  his  old  hat,  bade  her  a 
second  and  genial  good  bye. 

"  Only  see,  Lu,  what  beautiful  berries  1"  and  taking  the 


HASTY   WOKDS,  AXD   THEIR   APOLOGY.  85 

leafy  covering  from  her  basket,  Myrie  ran  down  the  walk 
toward  the  portico,  where  sat  Luther,  with  a  book  before  his 
eyes. 

"  Very  beautiful  !"  he  replied,  scarcely  glancing  aside  from 
the  page. 

"  Where  have  you  been  !"  asked  Myrie,  in  good-natured  sur- 
prise, bending  one  knee  on  the  step  at  his  feet,  for  she  saw 
that  bis  shoes,  generally  so  polished,  were  positively  muddy, 
and  that  the  hems  of  his  white  trowsers  were  almost  dripping 
wet,  while  the  usually  prim  collar  lopped,  damp  and  limberly. 

Luther  did  not  so  much  as  lift  his  eyes  this  time,  but  in 
answer  to  the  question  of  where  he  had  been,  replied  concisely, 
"  in  the  rain." 

Myrie  said  not  another  word,  but  having  adjusted  the  leaves 
that  covered  her  basket,  skipped  round  the  corner  of  the  house, 
provokingly  indifferent. 

"  Did  you  see  Luther  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Brisbane,  as  Myrie  came 
in  ;  "  he  has  been  watching  for  you  this  half-hour." 

"  I  did  not  think  he  was  watching  for  me,"  she  replied  ;  "  he 
would  hardly  speak." 

"  Well,  poor  boy,"  said  the  mother,  "  he  is  a  little  vexed,  I 
suppose,  and  no  wonder  ;  he  went  out  with  the  umbrella  to 
bring  you  home,  and  could  not  find  you  ;  and  besides  that,  was 
caught  in  the  rain,  and  soiled  his  clean  clothes,  as  you  saw." 

"  Oh  how  sorry  I  am  !"  said  Myrie,  and  filling  the  cup  with 
the  berries,  she  hastened  to  offer  them  to  Luther,  with  the 
expression  of  her  sympathy  and  regret. 

"  Where  were  you  ?"  asked  he,  setting  down  the  cap  as 
though  for  his  part  he  cared  nothing  about  blackberries. 

Myrie   said   where   she   was,  and  with  whom,  adding  that 


86  HASTY    WORDS,  A XI)    THEIR   APOLOGY. 

Charley  Robinson  was  the  nicest  aud  best  little  boy  she  ever 
saw. 

"  Dear  me,"  said  Luther,  tartly,  "  if  I  had  known  you  were 
so  well  protected,  I  might  have  spared  myself  much  trouble, 
and  the  danger  of  getting  cold  and  dying,  perhaps." 

Myrie  laughed  a  little  derisively,  and  replied,  "  that  the 
warmth  of  his  temper  would  be  likely  to  keep  off  a  chill  ;"  and 
sitting  down  on  the  portico,  opposite  him,  amused  herself  by 
humming  a  tune.  Perhaps  she  thought  that  Luther  would 
speak  to  her  ;  but  he  did  not,  and  directly,  as  though  the  tune 
interrupted  his  studies,  closed  the  volume  and  retired  to  his  own 
room,  leaving  the  berries  untouched. 

"  It  would  not  be  Charley  Robinson  that  would  ever  be  so 
sullen,  I  know,"  thought  Myrie  ;  and  as  if  the  thought  were 
some  retaliation  upon  Luther,  she  recalled  all  the  pleasant 
interview  of  the  afternoon,  and  at  last  ended  in  a  dreamy 
musing,  forgetting  Luther  altogether. 

With  now  and  then  some  such  ruffling  of  the  current  as  we 
have  described,  the  lives  of  the  little  folks  ran  on.  Many 
a  spring  they  gathered  flowers  together  along  the  fields  and 
in  the  woods — many  a  morning  they  planned  and  planted  the 
garden — and  many  a  time  picked  together  the  white  nuts 
from  the  ground,  and  the  red  apples  from  the  trees  ;  and  so 
they  stepped  up  the  years,  one  after  another,  into  manhood 
and  womanhood,  and  the  blushes  many  a  time  shone  between 
Myrie's  curls,  when  Luther  found  place  for  some  tender  senti- 
ment, as  he  instructed  her  in  French,  or  drawing,  or  music. 

And  during  these  years,  Charley  Robinson  went  tossing 
about  the  world,  drifting  every  now  and  then  into  his  boyhood's 
harbor,  by  chance  as  it  seemed — perhaps  it  was  so,  neverthe- 


HASTY   WORDS,  AXD   THEIK   APOLOGY.  87 

less  he  was  sure  to  come  first  and  last  to  see  Myrie — she 
always  joyously,  demonstratively  glad  to  see  him — he  always 
bashfully,  silently,  more  than  glad  to  see  her. 

Sometimes  his  pockets  were  well  lined,  and  his  coat  glossy 
and  new  ;  and  at  other  times  his  feet  were  badly  shod,  and  the 
brim  of  his  hat  not  much  less  torn  than  of  old.  Poor  Charley  ! 
fortune  played  all  games  with  him. 

He  had  seen  many  countries,  and  a  number  of  the  great 
cities  of  the  world,  picking  up  some  knowledge,  but  not  much 
wisdom  ;  enlarging  experience,  but  reaping  small  profit  ;  now 
on  the  sea  as  a  common  sailor,  now  as  a  traveller  with  money 
and  leisure  ;  sometimes  prying  stones  from  the  hard  quarry, 
for  the  sake  of  daily  necessities,  and  then  again  coining  money 
by  this  or  that  chance  speculation  :  but  his  hands  had  still  the 
old  trick — the  money  slipped  through  them — no  poor  man  nor 
woman  crossed  his  path  who  was  not  the  richer  for  it,  and 
often  his  last  shilling  went  with  the  rest. 

It  was  nothing  Charley  said — he  would  get  more  some  way; 
and  so  he  did,  but  it  was  often  some  very  hard  way.  But  he 
seemed  rather  to  like  bad  fortune,  and  put  his  shoulder  to  the 
wheel  with  the  same  desperate  energy,  no  matter  how  small 
the  benefit  accruing  to  himself,  or  if,  indeed,  the  advantage 
were  all  another's — poor  Charley  !  there  was  no  method  in  his 
nature — all  was  just  as  it  chanced. 

Up  and  down  the  world  were  scores  of  people  who  had  enjoyed 
his  liberality,  and  said,  "  What  a  good,  careless  fellow  he  is  1" 
and  forgotten  him,  for  though  a  genial  companion,  the  impres- 
sion he  left  was  generally  evanescent.  There  was  not  in  his 
character  strength  and  power  enough  to  leave  its  impress  on 
others  fixed  and  well-defined. 


88  HASTY   WOKDS,  AXD   THEIR   APOLOGY. 

Luther  never,  with  all  the  advantages  of  education  and  man- 
ners, prospective  wealth  and  respectability  of  position,  and 
beloved,  as  he  knew  himself  to  be,  felt  quite  easy  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  self-cultured  and  really  noble-hearted  Charley.  He 
invariably  spoke  of  him  as  one  so  much  his  inferior  as  by  no 
possibility  to  come  in  competition  with  him,  but  when  they  met, 
Charley  compelled  from  him  an  acknowledgment  of  social 
equality.  For  it  is  hard  to  frown  in  the  face  that  smiles  upon 
us  confidingly,  or  to  draw  back  our  hand  from  a  cordial  grasp. 
But  he  was  careful  to  repeat  to  Myrie  whatever  stories  of 
Charley's  improvidence  he  could  hear,  doubtless  with  no  inten- 
tion to  exaggerate,  and  yet  the  character  of  Charley  never 
shone  the  brighter  for  his  handling. 

If  he  had  ever  said,  "  My  dear  Myrie,  I  am  ashamed  of  the 
weakness  ;  but  I  am  pained,  jealous  if  you  will,  when  I  see 
you  so  much  entertained  by  the  adventurous  tales  of  Charley 
Eobinson,  for  I  fear  the  glow  of  his  really  generous  nature 
makes  my  selfishness  seem  all  the  darker."  If  he  had  said 
this,  or  anything  like  this,  Myrie  would  have  told  him  frankly 
and  truly  that  Charley  was  to  her  like  some  poor  brother  who 
had  shared  all  the  hardships  of  her  cabin-home,  and  with 
whom  her  sympathy,  in  consequence  of  shared  pain  and  poverty, 
was  very  close  ;  that  it  seemed  her  duty  as  well  as  pleasure  to  be 
to  him  strength  and  comfort — to  make,  as  it  were,  a  dewy  morn- 
ing in  the  weary  workday  of  his  life  ;  for  lightly  as  he  talked, 
and  gayly  as  he  laughed  over  the  struggles  he  had  had  with  ad- 
versity, she  knew  that  it  was  not  in  human  nature  to  be  insensi- 
ble to  suffering — that  "  the  flesh  will  quiver  where  the  pincers 
tear,"  however  the  martyr  may  suppress  the  groans. 

But  such  was  not  the  course  of  Luther  Brisbane  ;  he  would 


HASTY   WORDS,  AXD   THEIE   APOLOGY.  89 

not  confess  the  weakness  of  fearing  any  man,  but  strove  to 
make  void  his  real  fear  by  pretence  of  its  non-existence  ;  and 
by  the  frequent  assertion  of  supremacy  and  declaration  of  his 
dislike  of  Charley,  he  called  out  defences  from  Myrie,  which 
she  would  never  otherwise  have  made  ;  and  whatever  woman 
is  required  to  defend,  she  speedily  learns  to  love  ;  so,  whatever, 
coolness  Luther  showed  the  young  man,  she  atoned  for  by  a 
double  warmth. 

When  Luther  went  away  to  college  it  was  with  a  heart 
quite  at  rest.  Charley  was  gone,  Heaven  only  knew  where. 
When  he  came  to  say  good  bye  to  Luther  that  young  man  had 
treated  him  with  unusual  cordiality — he  quite  received  him 
into  friendship,  even  to  confldence  ;  it  is  to  be  hoped  he  did 
not  know  the  full  extent  of  the  harm  he  was  doing,  that  he 
was  in  truth  but  softening  a  heart  that  he  might  press  the 
thorn  down  deep. 

As  they  sat  under  the  summer  trees  together,  the  young  col- 
legian unfolded  to  his  pleased  listener  the  plan  of  his  future 
life,  the  crowning  bliss  of  which  was,  of  course,  to  be 
his  marriage  with  Myrie,  to  whom  he  was  already  betrothed. 

The  next  day  Charley  was  gone  from  the  neighborhood,  no 
one  knew  why  nor  where.  The  full  moon  that  had  shone  so 
brightly  over  the  lovers  the  night  past  had  lighted  his  lone- 
some steps — anywhere  he  cared  not,  so  it  was  to  new  scenes 
and  new  adventures  ;  yet  every  step  that  divided  him  from 
Myrie,  stirred  the  thorn  that  was  in  his  heart,  and  made  it 
bleed  afresh.  Poor,  poor  Charley  1 

There  is  a  sort  of  love,  if  love  it  may  be  called,  that  only 
lives  upon  opposition— it  will  break  down  every  barrier,  climb 
to  every  height,  and  descend  to  every  depth,  to  obtain  its 


00  HASTY   WORDS,  AND   THEIR   APOLOGY. 

object,  or  in  other  words  to  triumph — it  is  like  the  boy's  pas- 
sion for  the  butterfly,  prompting  the  chase  through  brier  and 
bush,  up  steep  places,  and  over  rough  grounds — but  when  the 
treasure  is  captured,  the  passion  dies — the  pretty  wings, 
handled  roughly,  lose  all  their  beauty  ;  and  feeble  and  spirit- 
less, the  insect  is  let  go  to  creep  and  flutter  as  it  can,  admired 
of  its  captor  never  more.  It  is,  perhaps,  wrong  to 
call  what  is  only  love  of  power,  love — but  I  have  called 
it  so,  because  it  is  a  counterfeit  that  passes  current  in  most 
places.  Selfish  natures,  wishing  to  subdue  all  things  to  their 
own  interests,  are  apt,  I  think,  to  deceive  themselves  ;  and  it 
is  not  that  those  men  are  hypocrites  beyond  all  others  who 
smile,  and  smile,  and  murder  while  they  smile,  but  simply  more 
ambitious  of  subjugating  others  to  themselves.  It  may  be 
that  Luther  so  deceived  himself. 

After  the  first  sorrow  of  separation,  no  bird  in  the  meadows 
was  so  happy  as  Myrie  ;  you  might  hear  her  singing  under  the 
trees,  and  skipping  nimbly  about  the  garden,  now  telling  the 
dog  about  his  absent  master  ;  sometimes,  indeed,  she  would 
sit  in  her  chamber  for  an  hour  or  more  ;  but  if  you  could 
have  peeped  over  her  shoulder,  you  would  have  seen  that  she 
was  writing  and  rewriting  letter  after  letter,  and  yet  all  the 
same  letter  ;  for  one  and  all  began  with  "Luther,  dear  Luther," 
and  ended  with  "  Luther,  dear  Luther."  She  was  trying  to 
maker  her  letter  good  enough  to  send  to  him — poor,  sweet 
child  1 

He  had  not  gone  three  days,  when  she  began  to  watch 
anxiously  for  Mr.  Brisbane  as  he  returned  evenings  from  the 
village  where  the  post-office  was ;  he  might  bring  a  letter,  she 
thought ;  indeed  it  was  the  most  likely  thing  in  the  world,  that 


HASTY   WORDS,  AND   THEIE   APOLOGY.  91 

Luther  would  seize  the  first  spare  momeut,  and,  perhaps,  from 
the  first  inu  at  which  he  should  stop  send  back  a  line  to  say 
how  he  thought  of  her  every  waking  moment,  and  dreamed  of 
her  every  sleeping  one,  and  pined  to  be  back  in  the  past,  or 
away  in  the  reunion  of  the  distant  future.  She  was  more 
troubled  for  Luther  than  for  herself — she  had  so  many  com- 
forts of  which  he  was  deprived.  Could  she  not  sit  in  the 
shade  of  the  very  tree  where  they  had  sat  so  often — read  the 
poems  they  had  read  together  ;  and  were  not  these  things  the 
accessories  of  a  closer  spiritual  communion  than  he  could 
have  ?  Ah,  yes  !  Luther  had  the  hardest — had,  indeed,  all 
the  suffering.  She  had  flowers,  and  books  and  walks,  and  a 
Ihousand  things  to  assure  her  and  reassure  her  ;  but  Luther, 
poor  Luther,  could  see  no  evidence  of  the  blessed  past  out  of 
his  own  heart.  That,  she  knew,  was  filled  to  aching  fullness 
with  its  honied  sweets  ;  and  she  saw  that  the  pleasure  of  new 
sensations  and  new  experiences  were  his — that  his  zest  of  mere 
animal  life  was  much  keener  than  hers — that  he  had,  too,  the 
sustaining  stimulus  of  prospective  endeavor  and  triumph  ;  but 
with  all,  and  for  all,  Luther,  poor  Luther,  had  the  worst  of  it. 

After  the  few  first  evenings,  Myrie  prolonged  her  watches 
by  beginning  them  an  hour  too  soon  ;  and  when  in  the  distance 
she  saw  her  guardian  approaching,  she  could  not  stay  within 
doors  any  longer,  but  would  go  out  to  meet  him — at  first  only 
to  the  gate,  then  to  the  next  hill,  and  so  further  and  further 
as  the  nights  went  by  and  no  letter  came. 

She  never  said  she  had  come  for  anything,  or  expected  any 
thing  ;  but  the  smile  and  eager  look  with  which  she  always 
met  Luther's  father  would  presently  fade  away,  and,  taking 
his  hand,  she  would  walk  beside  hitn,  looking  on  the  ground, 


92  HASTY   WORDS,  AND   THEIR   APOLOGY. 

and  speaking  not  a  word.     If  asked  what  the  matter  was,  she 
would  say,  "  Nothing,"  and  that  was  all. 

The  color  began  to  fade  in  her  cheeks,  except  now  and  then 
when  they  flushed  with  the  old  brightness  at  the  thought  of 
Luther's  constancy,  or  with  her  own  shame  for  indulging  a 
doubt.  Were  there  not  a  thousand  reasons  for  his  silence — 
the  hurry  and  confusion  of  settlement,  and  all  the  engrossing 
occupations  of  a  new  life's  beginning.  She  had  been  foolishly 
exacting,  and  would  wait  her  lover's  leisure  and  pleasure  more 
patiently.  Then  the  fearful  thought  would  come  that  he  might 
be  ill,  for  love  is  of  all  passions  most  tormenting  ;  and  in  measur- 
ing the  strength  of  his  attachment  by  her  own,  she  could  not  by 
any  possibility  reconcile  herself  to  the  silence.  She  could  not 
have  thus  kept  him  waiting,  if  life  and  liberty  were  hers,  no 
matter  what  else  intervened.  Then  would  come  the  thought  of 
forgetfulness  and  desertion,  and  the  mental  and  bodily  prostra- 
tion would  be  followed  by  the  bitter  energy  of  reacting  despair  ; 
but  this  came  at  moments  and  at  intervals,  and  for  the  most 
part  she  felt  that  some  dreadful  calamity  had  befallen  her  dar- 
ling ;  for,  underlying  all  possibilities  and  probabilities,  was  the 
deep-seated  conviction  that,  whatever  her  sufferings,  he  had  the 
worst  of  it. 

One  week — two  weeks — ten  days — nearly  two  weeks  were 
gone.  The  caty-dids  in  the  top  of  the  high  pear-tree  that 
grew  near  the  door  were  noisily  welcoming  in  the  early  autumn, 
and  in  the  distant  woods  the  winds  were  making  that  moaning 
murmur  that  comes  when  the  glory  of  summer  is  gone  :  the 
sunshine  was  lessening  on  the  hills,  and  the  gladness  in  Myrie's 
heart  was  lessening  like  it.  She  had  scarcely  spoken  all  day, 
and  yet  she  was  not  ill,  she  said,  nor  sad  ;  and  to  every 


HASTT   WORDS,  AND   THEIR   APOLOGY.  93 

inquiry   as   to  her    disaffection,   the    reply   was,   "  Nothing, 
nothing." 

Mrs.  Brisbane,  kind,  motherly  soul,  put  down  her  sewing 
more  than  once,  "and  laying  her  cool,  moist  hands  on  the  girl's 
forehead,  besought  her  to  lie  down  for  a  little  while — to  taste 
of  cordial,  or  to  walk  among  the  late  garden  flowers,  and  try 
to  steal  from  their  beauty  some  color  for  her  cheeks. 

Myrie's  eyes  would  fill  with  tears  ;  but  she  would  say  she 
was  very  well  and  very  happy,  and  remain  quietly  gazing  away 
across  the  fading  woods  and  hill-tops — she  herself  knew  not 
where.  It  was  not  the  cordial,  nor  the  walk,  nor  the  bodily 
rest  she  required.  Poor  Myrie  ! 

She  thought  now,  as  the  sun  went  down,  she  was  watching 
the  fading  light,  and  the  motion  of  the  leaves,  and  the  darting 
hither  and  thither  of  the  night-hawks,  that  were  come  out  an 
hour  before  their  time  ;  but  all  the  time  her  eyes  kept  gazing 
in  one  direction  ;  and  if  the  look  fixed  itself  nowhere,  it  took  in 
nearly  all  the  dusty  length  of  the  road  till  it  wound  down 
among  the  hills  beyond  the  village,  where  the  one  spire,  beauti- 
fully white,  held  up  its  glittering  cross.  She  wondered  how  Mrs. 
Brisbane  smiled  so  cheerfully,  and  went  about  the  house  possess- 
ing her  soul  in  peace — how  could  she  be  so  calm  and  fearless  of 
harm,  saying  lightly,  when  she  spoke  of  Luther,  that  it  was 
enough,  like  the  boy,  to  remember  them  only  when  he  needed 
them. 

The  sun  went  down,  and  the  owl  hooted  dismally,  as  if  in 
mockery  of  all  gayer  sounds,  and  still  Myrie  kept  the  old  position. 
She  would  not  go  to  the  gate  even  to  meet  her  guardian  that 
night ;  she  was  trying*to  believe  she  was  no  longer  hopefully 
expectant,  as  if  she  could  shut  her  heart  from  her  heart. 


94  HASTY    WOKDS,  AND   THEIR   APOLOGY. 

Foolish  girl  !  Many  hills  were  yet  between  thorn  when  she  saw 
him,  and  though,  to  fortify  herself  against  disappointment,  she 
told  her  soul  over  and  over  that  he  would  not  have  any  letter 
— and  if  he  had,  it  would  not  be  for  her — the  first  approach- 
ing footfalls  made  her  heart  beat  the  brightest  color  up  to  her 
cheek  that  had  been  there  for  days  and  days. 

She  would  not  turn  her  eyes  towards  her  guardian  as  ho 
came  in  ;  but  when  he  said,  "  here  is  a  letter  from  Lu,"  there 
was  an  involuntary  reaching  out  of  her  hand,  and  such  an 
exclamation  of  joy  as  one  might  make  if  the  dead  were  brought 
to  life.  It  wa^  a  very  little  sheet  of  note-paper,  folded  neatly,  and 
addressed  simply,  "  For  Myrie."  "  How  did  you  get  it  !"  and 
"could  it  come  to  me  this  way?"  were  Myrie's  first  happy 
exclamations  ;  and  when  she  learned  from  her  guardian  that  it 
had  been  inclosed  in  the  envelope  containing  one  to  himself, 
the  first  enthusiasm  was  gone.  She  hardly  knew  why,  but  she 
would  ratlvr  have  broken  the  seal,  and  that  the  superscription 
had  been  all  to  herself. 

"  And  how  does  he  excuse  himself  for  not  having  written  till 
this  late  day  ?"  inquired  the  mother,  still  evenly  drawing  up 
the  threads  of  her  sewing  work. 

"  Let  me  see  what  he  does  say,"  replied  the  father,  and, 
adjusting  his  spectacles,  he  unfolded  the  letter,  and  placing  the 
candle  between  it  and  himself,  read  aloud  slowly  : — "  '  Dear 
parents,  I  have  been  too  busy  and  too  happy  to  write.' " 

"  There,  Myrie,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Brisbane,  interrupting  the 
reading,  "  I  told  you  so  !" 

"  I  know  it,"  replied  the  girl,  and,  crushing  the  letter  she 
held,  glided  out  of  the  house,  the  bitter  waters  that  had  been 
stirring  in  her  heart,  brimming  over  her  eyes. 


HASTY   WOBDS,  AXD   THEIR   APOLOGY.  95 

The  moon  came  out  of  the  lonesome  woods,  and  looked 
down  on  her  tenderly  and  sadly,  and  climbed  higher  and  higher 
to  the  middle  of  the  great  quiet  sky  before  she  arose  from  the 
seat  she  had  taken  under  the  low  apple  tree — the  same  on  which 
she  sat  when  Charlie  stooped  over  her,  and  with  one  kiss 
turned  heavy-hearted  away — how  heavy-hearted  she  felt  now 
for  the  first  time,  for  she  suffered  now  with  a  kindred  pang. 
It  was  as  if  her  tears,  watering  a  hitherto  unnoticed  bud, 
caused  it  to  burst  open,  and  she  saw  what  manner  of  flower  it 
might  have  been. 

Then,  as  she  smoothed  out  the  as  yet  unopened  note,  and 
with  a  step  steadier  than  that  with  which  she  came,  turned  to- 
wards the  house,  came  the  thought  that  had  come  to  her  once 
before,  when  she  was  a  little  girl.  "  Charley  would  not  have 
done  so."  But  where  was  he  ?  She  could  not  tell  ;  but  in  her 
heart  she  wished  heaven  would  keep  him  and  eruide  him  back 

^         r  .         ^ 

some  time,  and  with  no  conscious  significance,  she  sang,  as  she 
walked  under  the  moonlight,  "Jamie's  on  the  stormy  Sea." 
Who  shall  say  that  thoughts  go  not  like  arrows  to  their 
marks,  and  leave  their  impress  more  or  less  deep,  as  spirits  are 
kindred  or  impressible. 

Luther  did  not  say  to  Myrie  he  had  been  too  busy  and  too 
happy  to  write — he  did  not  intimate  any  thought  of  her  expec- 
tation of  a  letter  earlier,  or  of  one  at  all  indeed.  True,  he 
began  with  "  Dear  Myrie  ;"  but  to  the  reader  the  words  seemed 
dead,  as  it  were — there  was  no  earnest  and  deep  meaning  in 
them.  He  expressed  no  fear  of  her  unfaithfulness — there  was 
nothing  to  be  faithful  to,  as  the  letter  suggested — no  concern 
lest  she  might  be  unhappy — of  course  she  was  happy — why 
should  she  not  be  ?  Life  was  before  her,  and  the  choice  of  her 


90  HASTY   WOKDS,  AND   THEIE   APOLOGY. 

own  way — thus  implying  freedom  from  any  obligation  to  him. 
He  did  not  say  be  thought  of  the  old  walks,  or  repeated  the 
old  poems  ;  but  -the  entire  letter  was  in  a  light,  flippant  strain, 
and  chiefly  about  himself,  his  occupations,  plans,  and  prospects, 
with  some  allusion  to  the  weather,  an  attempted  description  of 
the  scenery  about  his  new  residence,  ending  in  an  elaborate 
account  of  one  of  his  professors,  meant  to  be  exceedingly  funny. 

He  hoped  Myrie  would  write  at  her  leisure  and  inclination, 
and  tell  him  all  the  news  of  her  little  world  ;  and  if  she  found 
herself  oppressed  with  any  superfluous  amount  of  tenderness, 
after  duly  caring  for  Brave  (the  dog),  her  birds  and  flowers, 
she  might  bestow  it  upon  him  if  she  could  so  far  forget  his 
nnworthiuess,  and  so  oblige  her  devoted  friend  and  humble  ser- 
vant— Luther  Brisbane.  No  abbreviation  from,  nor  addition 
to,  the  full  and  simple  name — just  as  he  would  have  written  to 
any  one  else.  The  butterfly  had  opened  its  wings  wide  before 
him — had  nestled  close  in  his  bosom — he  had  counted  all  its 
rings  of  gold  and  brown,  and  was  willing,  nay,  glad,  to  toss  it 
off  his  hand. 

Strong  in  health  and  strong  in  hope,  selfish,  proud,  and 
ambitious,  we  must  let  him  alone  ;  he  will  learn,  perhaps,  by 
and  by,  that  affection  has  taken  deeper  root  in  his  heart  than 
as  yet  he  is  aware  of. 

Sometimes  Myrie  thought  she  would  not  write  at  all — then 
she  would  make  bitter  accusations,  and  by  showing  him  how 
desolate  and  broken,  and  altogether  helpless  her  heart  was, 
make  him,  perforce,  take  it  up  tenderly,  as  of  old.  Then 
again  she  resolved  to  affect  indifference,  and  reply  to  his  care- 
less and  flippant  letter  in  a  tone  as  careless  and  flippant  as  his 
own. 


HASTY   WORDS,  AND   THEIK   APOLOGY.  97 

Hope  and  despair,  and  much  suffering,  doubtless,  ran  through 
all  this  unsteadiness  of  purpose,  and  whether  she  in  the  end 
adopted  a  middle  course — now  silent,  and  now  speaking,  half  cold- 
ness and  half  fondness — I  know  not,  but  think  this  course  like- 
liest ;  one  thing,  however,  is  certain,  the  less  strength  Luther 
gave  her  to  lean  upon,  the  more  she  leaned  upon  herself. 
Choke  up  the  fountain  in  one  direction,  and  it  will  make  itself 
a  channel  in  another  ;  and  unless  the  living  waters  of  love  be 
dried  up  at  their  source,  as  sometimes  happens,  they  will  flow 
over  something,  not  unlikely  over  weeds  as  well  as  flowers. 

More  than  a  year  had  passed  since  Luther  went  away,  and 
Myrie  was  coming  at  sunset  along  the  dusty  path  by  the  road- 
side, looking  thoughtfully  and  walking  slowly — perhaps  she 
dreaded  to  say  at  home  that  she  had  no  letter  from  Luther — 
and  this  was  the  ninth  week  since  the  last  one  came. 

Hard  struck  the  hoofs  of  a  fast  rider  on  the  clay  of  the 
beaten  and  sunbaked  road — nearer  and  nearer  they  sounded, 
and  the  shadows  of  the  gay  horse  and  hasty  rider  were  just 
before  her,  she  turned  into  the  deep  dusty  weeds  and  thick 
shadows  of  the  low  elms  that  grew  by  the  road-side.  The 
hands  that  lay  on  her  bosom,  one  on  the  other  were  suddenly 
unclasped,  and  a  voice  to  which  joy  lent  so  solemn  and  so  deep 
a  music  that  she  scarcely  recognized  it  for  Charley's,  said 
"  Myrie  !" — how  often  we  turn  aside  like  her  and  so  meet  our 
fate  ! 

When  Myrie  wrote  next  to  Luther  she  told  him  (who  shall 
say  why  or  wherefore?)  that  the  social  enjoyments  of  the 
neighborhood  had  been  greatly  quickened  by  the  unexpected 
return  of  Charles  Eobinson  ;  and  she  added,  as  a  pleasant 
bit  of  information,  perhaps,  that  his  growth  of  manly  beauty 

5 


98  HASTY  WOKDS,  A]*D   THEIR   APOLOGY. 

and  mental  stature  were  alike  remarkable.  This  was  all  or 
nearly  all,  she  said  about  Charley  ;  nevertheless,  it  was  suffi- 
cient to  rouse  the  old  jealousy,  and  make  Luther  himself  again. 
The  return  mail  brought  a  long  letter,  assuming  all  the  old 
authority,  if  less  than  the  old  love. 

Night  and  morning  Myrie  was  heard  singing  again  in  her 
chamber,  in  the  garden,  up  and  down  the  dooryard  walks. 
The  leaves  faded  and  fell,  and  the  sun  rose  and  set  in  the  dull 
glory  that  comes  duly  with  the  dying  year  ;  but  the  winds  were 
now  pleasant  companions  to  the  heart  that  thought  them  so 
lonesome  the  year  past. 

Not  unfrequently  Charley  sat  at  the  supper-table  and  told 
stories,  less  perhaps,  for  the  good  old  folks  than  for  Myrie,  and 
often  in  the  moonlight,  under  the  trees  at  the  door,  he  sat  with 
her  alone,  telling  stories  still  ;  and  under  all,  felt  by  both,  but 
spoken  not,  was  the  one  story  which  he  did  not  tell. 

Suddenly,  without  intimation  or  excuse,  Luther  appeared  at 
the  old  homestead.  Without  excuse,  I  said,  though  he,  said 
he  was  suffering  from  ill  health,  and  required  relaxation  and 
quietude.  Whether  in  ill  health  or  not,  it  is  quite  certain  he 
came  in  ill  humor,  and  that  poor  Myrie  was  from  the  first  the 
recipient  of  it.  He  had  grown  handsome,  grave,  and  reserved  ; 
but  there  was  one  subject  which  darkened  all  the  beauty  of  his 
face  with  frowns,  and  swept  away  his  reserve  with  a  torrent  of 
angry  denunciation — nothing  connected  with  Charles  Robinson 
would  he  suffer  to  be  mentioned  in  his  presence,  and  yet  himself 
made  the  most  constant  allusions  to  him.  He  was  astonished  that 
his  mother  should  find  entertainment  in  the  inflated  inventions 
which  the  vagabond  Charley  was  in  the  habit  of  passing  off  as 
experiences.  It  was  quite  proper,  to  be  sure,  to  show  a  certain 


HASTY   WORDS,  AND   THEIR   APOLOGY.  99 

civility  to  inferiors ;  but  when  they  presumed  upon  it  as  did 
this  vulgar  person,  it  was  time  to  put  some  protecting  restraint 
upon  politeness  ;  he  could  plainly  see,  though  no  one  else 
could,  a  pitiful  deterioration  in  the  morality  of  the  neighbor- 
hood within  the  year  past,  and  who  so  blind  as  not  to  know  to 
whom  to  trace  it  all.  Why,  nobody  could  be  so  blind  ;  he  was 
very  sure  Myrie  could  not,  she  was  quite  too  sensible,  too  capa- 
ble of  higher  appreciation  ;  he  was  not  in  the  least  afraid  of  her 
being  misled  by  the  pleasaatries  of  a  mere  adventurer — by 
what  he  was  sure  she  knew  was  but  the  shining  of  rottenness. 
Oh  no,  it  was  not  for  her  he  feared  ;  but  for  the  artless  and 
unsuspecting  village  girls,  not  one  of  whom  would  be  suffered 
to  escape  the  serpent's  fascinations.  He  had  one  sure  hope, 
however — doubtless  the  spendthrift  would  soon  find  himself  re- 
duced to  his  customary  shameful  poverty,  and  have  perforce, 
to  make  another  recruiting  expedition,  and  relieve  the  neighbor- 
hood of  his  presence,  while  he  pursued  his  trade  of  begging, 
borrowing,  or  stealing.  Luther  was  not  certain  whether  to 
one  or  to  all  the  said  makeshifts  Charles  Robinson  was  addicted. 

Some  such  tirade  as  this  he  concluded  one  day  by  saying, 
"  Perhaps  Myrie  can  tell." 

Myrie  smiled  quietly,  and  replied,  "  that  as  it  did  not  especi- 
ally concern  her  to  know  in  what  particular  manner  Charley 
possessed  himself  of  money,  she  had  never  made  it  a  subject  of 
speculation  much  less  of  inquiry  ;  she  doubted  not  that  it  was 
fairly  won  ;  for  one  thing  she  had  admiringly  observed  of  Char- 
ley, and  that  was  that  when  he  could  not  speak  of  man  or 
woman  in  honest  approval,  he  was  always  generously  silent." 

"  And  so  you  own  to  me,"  said  Luther,  biting  his  lip,  "  that 
you  admire  this  profligate  who  calls  himself  Robinst/n  ?" 


100  HASTY   WORDS,  AND   THEIR   APOLOGY. 

"  I  admire  his  abstinence  from  evil  speaking  ;"  and  seeing 
the  frown  gathering  darker  and  darker  in  the  face  of  Luther, 
she  continued,  perhaps  with  the  perverseness  and  daring  of 
which  we  all  have  our  share,  "he  has  many  noble  and  generous 
qualities  which  I  admire,  and  which  I  wish  were  more  common." 
She  hesitated  a  little  on  the  close  of  the  sentence,  and  Luther 
taking  it  up,  said  sneeringly,  "  which  you  wish  I  possessed — 
thank  you,  Miss  Almira." 

Now  Luther  had  never  once  said  Almira,  much  less  Miss 
Almira,  since  the  day  of  their  first  acquaintance,  and  she  smiled 
again  at  the  meaning  formality.  She  made  no  other  reply,  and 
Luther  continued,  in  deepening  anger,  "  Perhaps  you  would  have 
me  say  Miss  Curtiss — I  will  endeavor  to  gratify  you,  though 
the  associations  are  anything  but  agreeable  to  me."  Myrie's 
eyes  flashed  with  fiery  indignation  ;  but  the  thought  of  her 
sweet,  patient,  dead  mother,  who  in  all  the  trial  of  her  hard 
life  had  never  dishonored  that  name,  put  out  the  fires  with 
moisture,  if  not  with  tears,  and  she  answered  with  a  slow 
speech,  that  showed  she  weighed  the  words  as  she  uttered  them  ; 
"  As  to  what  you  shall  call  me,  please  yourself — hereafter  you 
can  neither  please  nor  displease  me."  As  she  finished  speak- 
ing, she  arose  and  turned  to  leave  him. 

"  One  moment,  Myrie,"  said  Luther,  startled  into  something 
like  earnestness,  "  one  moment,  till  I  explain — truly  I  did  not 
intend  to  convey  the  meaning  you  have  received."  Myrie 
turned  half  round  and  said,  "  One  moment  would  not  serve  to 
explain  away  the  bitter  meaning  of  your  words — I  will  give 
you  a  year  ;  yes,  twenty  of  them,  if  I  live  so  long,  to  devise  an 
apology." 

"  I  wonder  "  said  Mrs.  Brisbane,  who  had  come  to  the  door 


HASTT   WORDS,  A]STD   THEIR   APOLOGY.  101 

to  thread  her  needle,  and  smiling  on  Myrie  as  she  passed,  "  I 
wonder  what  can  be  burning  ;  there  is  such  a  great  smoke 
across  the  fields,  and  it  seems  to  me  just  about  where  your 
mother's  house  used  to  stand.  I  hope  no  accident  has  hap- 
pened." 

Glad  of  an  excuse  to  be  alone,  Myrie  said  she  would  go  and 
see. 

There  are  times  in  life  when  the  saddest  memories  are  com- 
forting ;  from  the  aching  of  some  present  grief  they  draw  us 
away,  and  casting  a  shadow  over  all  our  life,  make  the  cloud 
and  the  night  less  gloomily  visible.  So  as  Myrie  walked  on  and 
on,  she  tried  to  define  distinctly  the  almost  forgotten  memories 
of  her  childish  life  ;  but  it  was  only  some  isolated  experience 
here  and  there,  which  had  been  deepened  she  knew  not  how, 
that  she  could  bring  distinctly  out  of  the  almost  forgotten  past  of 
early  childhood.  Gradually  s"he  could  make  the  picture  more 
clear — so  clear  that  she  trod  softly,  lest  the  rough  stubbly  way 
should  hurt  her  feet,  for  she  seemed  a  little  girl  again,  a  poor 
bare-footed  little  girl,  and  almost  believed  herself  going  home 
with  the  scanty  earnings  of  her  mother's  hard  week's  work. 
She  could  almost  see  the  pale,  anxious  face  at  the  window,  the 
narrow,  hard-beaten  path  leading  up  to  the  door,  the  hearth- 
stones and  the  fire,  the  one  better  chair  than  the  rest,  the 
floor  so  white  and  so  nice,  the  whitewashed  wall,  and  her  own 
two  or  three  faded  dresses  hanging  against  it.  Quite  uncon- 
scious of  time  and  distance,  she  kept  on  walking  and  musing  as 
she  walked,  till  the  summit  of  the  slope,  on  which  stood  the 
little  house  where  she  was  born,  was  reached. 

A  look  of  bewilderment  displaced  the  one  of  sorrow  that 
had  been  deepening  in  her  face  all  the  way.  Gould  she  be 


102  HASTY   WORDS,  AND   THEIR   APOLOGT. 

mistaken  ?  No  !  surely  that  was  the  hill,  that  was  the  very 
clump  of  trees,  under  which  she  remembered  to  have  played 
many  a  time,  while  her  mother  sat  by  and  sewed  ;  the  very 
trees  under  which  that  mother's  coffin  had  rested,  when  she 
for  the  last  time  looked  upon  her  ;  there  was  the  little  house 
itself,  the  same,  yet  not  the  same.  New  porches,  and  new 
roof,  and  new  blinds,  and  new  paint  had  so  completely 
changed  it,  that  had  she  seen  it  elsewhere,  it  would  scarcely 
have  reminded  her  of  her  birthplace.  The  trees  were  newly 
trimmed,  the  briers  removed  from  the  rear  grounds,  and  these 
it  was  which  made  the  smoke  that  showed  so  far  away.  The 
sod  was  shaven  smooth,  and  the  old  rose-bushes,  carefully 
pruned  and  tied  together.  She  was  not  yet  done  surveying 
the  scene  in  astonishment  when,  as  her  eyes  ran  down  the 
walk,  she  saw  Charley  Robinson  coming  forth  to  meet  and  wel- 
come her. 

"  Come  in,"  he  said,  a  smile  of  joy  illuminating  all  his  face, 
while  Myrie  was  yet  in  the  midst  of  delighted  exclamations 
that  her  poor  old  home  could  be  made  to  look  like  such 
a  paradise.  "  Come  in  and  see  how  you  like  my  style  of  fur- 
nishing." 

How  pretty  it  all  was  !  just  as  she  would  have  done  it  her- 
self. Curtains  so  fine  and  so  white,  chairs  and  tables  so  small 
and  so  neat,  just  as  if  they  had  been  made  for  the  very  cot- 
tage they  adorned  ;  and  the  carpet !  what  a  pattern  of  beauty 
— a  green  ground,  dotted  with  bright  red  roses  !  Who  could 
have  chosen  it  ?  Was  it  Charley,  and  simply  to  please  him- 
self? 

"  No,  dear  Myrie,  it  was  to  please  you.  I  thought  you 
would  like  to  see  the  old  place  looking  bright  and  comfortable, 


HASTY   WOEDS,  AND   THEIR   APOLOGY.  103 

and  that  you  would  perhaps  come  and  see  me  sometimes, 
for  I  am  going  to  live  here,  and  be  a  sober  farmer  here- 
after." 

There  was  a  mingling  of  sad  and  joyful  sensations  in  Myrie's, 
heart  as  she  walked  home,  for  it  had  been  a  long  while  that 
the  love  had  been  lessening  for  Luther,  the  liking  increasing 
for  Charley  ;  and  she  could  not  help  saying  over  and  over,  as 
she  remembered  what  seemed — whether  it  were  so  or  not — 
the  taunt  of  her  early  poverty,  "  Charley  would  not  have  done 
so  !"  and  had  he  not  now  given  her  living  proof  of  his  kinder 
and  nobler  disposition  ?  How  much  tenderness  and  poetry 
were  concealed  in  his  careless  and  seemingly  unsusceptible 
nature,  after  all. 

It  was  after  midnight  when  she  went  to  sleep,  and  then 
with  a  confused  image  in  her  mind  that  was  neither  Luther 
nor  Charley — partly  one  aad  partly  the  other  ;  for  so  some- 
times it  seems  as  if  we  surrendered  to  fate,  and  as  for  our- 
selves had  no  choice  in  the  matter.  To  us  all  there  come 
seasons  when  one  thing  seems  little  better  than  another  ; 
when  there  is  nothing  that  seems  very  bright,  or  very  much 
worth  having. 

And  so,  says  the  reader,  they  were  married,  Myrie  and 
Charley,  and  lived  very  happy,  and  Luther  remained  a  dis- 
contented old  bachelor  all  his  life  as  he  deserved  to.  You 
may  as  well  say  so  at  ouce,  for  I  see  that  will  be  the  end. 

Now,  dear  reader,  I  am  not  a  story-maker ;  if  I  were  I 
should  perhaps  shape  fortunes  more  smoothly  sometimes  ;  often 
what  would  seem  to  me  more  equitably  just  ;  but  I  am  simply 
the  writer  of  stories  life  has  made  for  me,  and  life's  stories  or 
life's  histories  do  not  always  run  as  we  would  suppose  they 


104  HASTY  WORDS,  AND   THEIR  APOLOGY. 

would,  or  as  we  would  have  them.  Now  in  shadow,  now  in 
sunshine  ;  now  where  it  is  extremely  rough,  and  then,  for  a 
little  while,  along  smooth  ground,  we  go  on  and  on,  and  lose 
^ourselves  in  the  silent  sea. 

Myrie's  life  was  not  very  different  from  the  rest,  nor  was 
Charley's,  though  his  ran  faster,  and  was  sooner  lost  to  the 
windings  and  shadows  of  time  than  are  some  others  ;  per- 
haps, however,  he  had  his  share  of  the  sunshine — who  shall 
tell? 

A  letter  from  Luther's  'mother  was  laid  one  day  on  his 
table  where  he  sat  composing  what  he  hoped  to  be  a  gradu- 
ating honor.  The  letter  was  superscribed  in  the  usually  clear 
and  steady  hand  of  his  mother,  which  seemed  to  say,  plainly 
enough,  that  all  at  home  was  well.  That  was  all  Luther 
cared  to  know  ;  so  he  thought,  and  so  the  letter  lay  till  he 
penned  sentence  after  sentence.  Coming  to  the  foot  of  a 
page,  he  glanced  along  it  with  a  satisfied  smile,  tossed  it 
aside,  leaned  back  in  his  chair  for  a  little  respite,  and  broke 
the  seal  of  his  mother's  letter.  For  a  moment  he  thought  he 
saw  this  great,  shining  world  dizzily  drifting  away  from  him  ; 
he  involuntarily  reached  out  his  hand  and  caught  at  nothing  ; 
there  was  nothing  left  to  catch  hold  of — aching,  empty  dark- 
ness, that  was  all !  He  might  not  be  Luther  Brisbane,  and 
that  fair  writing  before  him  might  not  be  a  prize  essay  :  it  was 
nonsense — nothing :  himself  was  nothing  for  all  he  knew. 
With  one  hand  he  swept  letters  and  papers  together,  locked  them 
in  the  desk  and  walked  out,  perhaps  to  see  if  the  world  were 
really  gone,  and  himself  and  his  little  dusty  room  all  that  were 
left. 

Luther  did  not  know — none  of  us  know — what  a  great  hope 


HASTY   WORDS,  A3TD   THEIR   APOLOGY.  105 

is  to  us  until  it  is  dead.  Not  till  we  take  it  up  and  find  how 
cold  it  is,  and  how  heavy  it  is,  and  that  we  have  nothing  to  do 
but  to  bury  it,  do  we,  or  can  we  know. 

He  learned  then  how  much  all  his  future  life  had  been 
colored  by  the  dream  of  his  love  ;  he  saw  for  what  all  his  strife 
had  been  ;  now  there  was  nothing  for  which  to  strive.  Not- 
withstanding the  estrangement,  he  had  never  thought  of  home 
disconnected  from  Myrie  ;  she  was  not  there,  and  his  mother 
said  she  rejoiced  while  she  mourned — rejoiced  that  Myrie  was 
so  happily  mated,  and  living  so  near,  and  yet  sad  for  the  break- 
ing up  of  the  different  future  she  had  planned  for  her.  She  did 
not  say  what  that  future  was.  Luther's  own  heart  told  him 
what  it  was.  "  I  cannot  be  sad,"  the  letter  concluded, 
"  when  I  see  our  darling  the  crowning  beauty  of  her  beautiful 
home." 

Here,  then,  was  something  to  catch  hold  of.  When  Luther 
re-read  the  letter,  he  lingered  a  long  time  upon  those  closing 
words.  "  So,  then,"  thought  he,  "  Myrie  is  happy  ;  I  wonder 
if  it  will  not  seud  a  shadow  across  her  threshold  when  she  hears 
of  what  honors  I  am  come  to,"  and  he  carefully  adjusted  the 
papers  containing  what  was  to  be  the  prize  essay.  "  And  this 
is  the  strength  of  woman's  attachment,  is  it  ?"  he  went  on  ; 
"  they  are  all  artful  and  fickle  alike — not  worth  regretting — in 
fact,  I  consider  myself  a  fortunate  man." 

And  as  the  disappointed  student  mused,  he  tore  his  mother's 
letter  into  little  slips  and  scattered  it  to  the  winds,  saying,  "  so 
perish  my  boyish  fancy,  and  now  for  a  career  of  ambition,  of 
manly  effort — now  for  a  life  that  is  a  life  ;"  and  he  concluded 
with  a  flat  contradiction  of  all  he  had  said  by  exclaiming,  "  I'll 

see  if  she  can  forget  me  !     I'll  be  a  man  yet,  she  might  have 

5* 


106  HASTY   WORDS,  AND   THEIR   APOLOGY. 

been  proud  of !  I'll  make  her  see,  and  make  the  world  see, 
that  I  am  sufficient  to  myself  !  Men  shall  not  think  of  naming 
me  in  the  same  breath — not  in  the  same  day — with  Charley 
Kobinson." 

So  Luther  resumed  his  pen,  and  a  vehement  and  nervous 
energy  mortised  the  words  one  to  another,  as  all  his  artistic 
ability  could  not  previously  have  done. 

If  we  could  see  the  influences  that  sometimes  work  out  fine 
results,  we  should  be  sadly  taken  aback.  It  is  not  best,  per- 
haps, to  inquire  too  far,  but  to  enjoy  the  shadow  without 
having  first  pryed  into  the  tree's  heart,  to  see  if  that  be  sound. 
The  blackest  cloud  gives  out  the  brightest  lightning  ;  the  grass 
grows  greenest  and  highest  where  the  carcass  lay.  The  thought 
of  the  applause  of  men  may  have  mingled  with  the  most  beauti- 
ful charities,  and  stimulated  the  missionary  to  do  his  work,  the 
martyr  to  do  his. 

Certain  it  is,  Luther  Brisbane  made  a  fine  speech  on  the 
sufficiency  of  the  mind  to  itself,  showing  very  clearly,  and  to 
the  satisfaction  of  most  who  heard  him,  that  the  bitterest 
experiences  and  sharpest  disappointments  of  life  are  but  the 
steps  by  which  it  goes  up  and  on — the  breaking  of  the  heart's 
idol  but  the  breaking  of  a  child's  toy — suffering,  all  privation,  of 
whatever  sort,  but  the  process  of  education  towards  higher  and 
wider  knowledge. 

Many  faint-hearted  striplings  went  home  that  day,  built  up 
in  hope  and  encouraged  in  faith  ;  with  cheeks  glowing,  and 
eyes  resting  on  some  bright  Eden  in  the  future,  between  which 
and  themselves  they  were  determined,  just  then,  nothing  should 
intervene. 

Luther,  meantime,  victor  where  all  were  honored,  with  con- 


HASTY   WORDS,  AND   THEIR   APOLOGY.  107 

gratulations  ringing  in  his  ears,  and  the  smile  of  a  proud  satis- 
faction shining  on  him  from  his  parents,  shut  himself  away  from 
all  who  sought  his  company,  buried  his  face  in  his  pillow,  and — 
shall  I  say  to  the  honor  or  the  shame  of  manhood  ? — wet  it 
with  his  tears.  On  the  whole,  I  think  it  were  better  said,  to 
manhood's  honor,  he  wept ;  for  it  is  the  weaknesses  of  our 
fellows  more  than  their  strength  that  endears  them  to  us  ;  we 
love  those  who  need  our  help  more  than  those  who  need  no 
support. 

Myrie  sat  at  the  window  of  her  pretty  cottage,  glancing  from 
her  sewing  work  now  and  then  down  the  walk  ;  it  was  time 
for  Charley  to  come  home  from  the  village.  She  had  not 
waited  long  (for  Charley  was  a  good  husband,  and  never 
kept  her  waiting  long)  when  she  heard  his  quick  step 
coming. 

"  I  have  kept  you  waiting7  Myrie,"  he  said,  shaking  back  his 
curly  hair  ;  "  but  never  mind,  I  have  brought  you  something 
that  will  more  than  pay  you.  I  waited  for  the  mail,  and  here 
is  Luther  Brisbane's  prize-essay." 

He  threw  it  in  her  lap,  and  went  on  :  "  Put  down  your  work, 
my  dear,  and  read  it ;  everybody  is  praising  Luther,  and  I 
almost  feared  to  bring  you  this,  for  it  throws  me  all  in  the 
shadow  ;  indeed,  Myrie,  I  don't  know  how  it  was  you  ever  saw 
anything  in  me  to  admire  !"  He  spoke  lightly,  but  the  moisture 
came  to  his  eyes,  and  affirmed  that  he  was  not  idly  depreciating 
himself. 

"  0  Charley,"  said  Myrie,  putting  the  grand  essay  aside,  and 
her  arm  about  his  neck,  "  I  should  love  you  for  your  generosity, 
if  you  had  not  one  of  your  other  thousand  good  and  admirable 
qualities."  After  a  moment  she  added,  "  Luther  is  not  great 


108  HASTY   WORDS,  AND   THEIK   APOLOGY. 

enough  to  praise  you  ;  but  no  matter  about  him  at  all ;  let  ua 
go  water  the  flowers  while  the  tea  is  making." 

And  in  their  cheerful  and  healthiful  occupation  they  present- 
ly forgot  all  about  Luther  Brisbane  ;  and  when,  the  following 
evening,  Charley  read  the  prize-essay  aloud,  Myrie  said  she  had 
not  thought  of  it  since  he  brought  it  home. 

If  Luther  could  have  heard  her  say  s  o,  he  would  have  taken 
another  upward  step,  perhaps,  in  his  long  and  bright  progress. 

When  Mrs.  Brisbane  came  to  drink  tea  with  Myrie  she  said 
she  had  hoped  to  bring  Luther  with  her,  but  that  he  had  been 
complaining  all  the  day  of  headache,  and  did  not  look  a  bit 
well,  poor  boy — and  besides,  he  had  taken  a  long  walk  in  the 
morning,  and  felt  quite  overcome.  Had  he  seen  Myrie's  white 
curtains  gleaming  through  the  roses,  and  heard  the  music  of 
her  voice  as  she  called  across  the  hill  to  the  good  and  loving 
Charley  ?  Perhaps  so. 

The  next  day — not  when  Charley  saw  her,  however — Myrie 
gathered  the  prettiest  bunch  of  flowers  she  could  cull  from  all 
her  choice  collection,  and  sent  it  to  the  indisposed  Luther. 
Was  it  in  the  hope  they  would  wake  "  disagreeable  associa- 
tions ?"  or  was  it  to  show  him  that  she  had  so  far  outgrown  her 
childish  fancy  as  to  regard  him  only  as  a  sick  neighbor,  whom 
she  would  fain  do  kindly  by  ? 

Why  should  we  pry  into  what  it  does  not  concern  us  to 
know  ?  Let  us  for  once  leave  vulgar  curiosity,  and  receive 
simply  that  "  Mrs.  Robinson  sends  Mr.  Brisbane  some  flowers, 
with  her  very  kind  regards."  So  the  errand-boy  said,  and  that 
is  all  we  have  to  do  with  it.  Daily,  Luther  made  long  walks 
about  the  neighborhood,  and  on  each  return  his  mother  in- 
quired whether  he  had  been  to  see  Myrie  ;  and  again  and 


HASTY   WORDS,  AND   THEIR   APOLOGY.  109 

again  he  replied  that  it  was  too  late  or  too  early,  or  that  his 
walk  had  been  in  a  different  direction  ;  and  perhaps  these 
answers  were  all  made  in  good  faith — at  any  rate,  it  does  not 
concern  us  to  know. 

His  stay  at  home  was  brief,  and  his  visit  confined  chiefly  to 
his  parents,  avoiding  all  society  in  as  far  as  was  possible.  The 
momentary  enthusiasm  created  by  his  prize-essay  went  down 
wonderfully  during  that  brief  visit.  He  was  grown  so  unsocial, 
the  villagers  said — too  proud  to  recognize  them  any  more. 
What  else  could  they  infer,  seeing  not  the  heart  of  the  young 
man,  and  how  indifferent  it  was  become  to  all  things. 

One  young  lady  of  the  village,  who  had  admiringly  read  the 
essay  half  a  dozen  times,  growing  enthusiastic  at  each  reading, 
and  essaying  her  own  powers  on  some  too  ambitious  theme — 
which,  alas  !  only  showed  how  insufficient,  as  yet,  her  mind  was 
for  her  task — resolved  that^Luther  should  be  brought  within 
the  magic  circle  of  female  influence  ;  and,  after  a  great  deal  of 
coaxing  of  the  old  folks,  leave  for  a  little  merry-making  was 
obtained.  But  vain  are  all  human  calculations,  as  the  ambitious 
young  woman  found  ;  for  after  all  the  preparation,  and  all  the 
expectation,  there  came  at  the  latest  hour,  and  when  hope  was 
weary  with  standing  tiptoe — not  Luther,  but  a  message  from 
his  mother,  saying  that  increasing  debility  had  hurried  his 
departure  beyond  his  design.  She  was  only  comforted  for  his 
absence — for  he  was  gone,  perhaps,  for  years — in  the  hope  of 
his  restoration  to  health. 

Poor  young  man  1  said  one  and  another ;  and  while  they 
talked  of  him  other  young  men  came,  and  thought  turned  back 
into  light  and  lively  channels,  and  Luther  Brisbane  was  forgot- 
ten. He  might  have  left  deeper  impressions  if  he  had  chosen 


110  HASTY   WORDS,  AND   THEIR   APOLOGY. 

to  do  so  ;  but  easy  acquisitions  were  not  among  the  things  he 
valued  ;  and  nothing  would  so  surely  have  kept  him  away  from 
the  little  festival  as  the  knowledge  that  he  was  anxiously 
expected  there.  The  hearts  of  the  best  of  us  are  sadly  per- 
verse, I  am  afraid. 

December  was  come,  the  seventh  one  since  Myrie  was  mar- 
ried, and  far  out  over  the  sunset-snow  gleamed  the  bright, 
warm  light  through  her  windows.  The  maid  was  busy  prepar- 
ing the  tea-table,  stopping  now  and  then  to  give  the  cradle  a 
tip,  or  to  slap  together  her  strong  brown  hands  in  the  face  of 
the  baby,  that  was  old  enough  now  to  sit  up  and  look  about  and 
smile — and  she  did  look  about  almost  constantly,  seemingly  to 
be  all  the  time  wondering  what  manner  of  world  she  was  come 
into.  Her  brown  eyes  were  browner  than  her  mother's,  as  it 
were  with  melancholy  shadows  ;  and  her  hair,  thick  and  dark, 
hung  a  hand's  breadth  over  her  neck,  or  shoulders  rather,  for 
it  was  not  much  of  a  neck  that  little  Lucy  had.  She  sat  up  in 
the  cradle,  not  looking  in  the  fire,  as  she  often  did,  but  keeping 
her  eyes  steadily  towards  the  door,  and  her  white  fingers  work- 
ing one  with  another,  as  if  she  were  anxiously  looking  for  her 
father  to  come.  The  maid  might  slap  her  hands  merrily  as  she 
would,  pull  her  hair,  or  shake  the  cradle  like  a  playful  storm, 
the  child  would  not  laugh,  scarcely  smile  ;  nor  could  any 
device  turn  her  for  more  than  a  moment  from  her  watching  at 
the  door.  Once  or  twice,  when  the  wind  rattled  the  shutters, 
and  drifted  from  the  eave  a  light  cloud  of  snow,  a  shudder 
passed  over  her,  and  she  looked  beseechingly  at  her  mother, 
who,  talking  through  her  to  the  maid,  kept  watch  beside  her. 
Warm  and  bright,  and  cheerful  the  room  was,  and  nothing  was 
wanting  to  make  it  a  perfect  picture  of  a  happy  home  but  the 


HASTY  WOEDS,  AND  THEIR  APOLOGY.  Ill 

coming  of  Charley,  who  had  been  away  all  day.  Myrie  looked 
often  down  the  snow-path,  and  seeing  him  not,  stitched  on  with 
nervous  energy,  and  looked  again,  and  stitched  again  faster 
than  before. 

Shadows  crept  over  the  snow  where  the  sunshine  had  been, 
and  the  wind  calmed  itself  down  into  keen  and  biting  stillness 
— deeper  grew  the  shadows,  and  deeper,  and  it  was  night. 
The  sewing  had  been  changed  to  the  book,  and  the  book  had 
been  opened  and  closed  a  dozen  times,  and  was  at  last  laid  on 
the  shelf ;  and  stooping  over  the  cradle,  the  young  mother, 
perhaps  to  strengthen  herself,  told  the  baby  again  and  again 
that  father  was  coming — now  he  was  almost  come  to  Mr. 
Brisbane's  house,  and  now  he  was  past  it — now  he  was  on  such 
a  hill,  and  now  riding  beneath  such  a  tree — now  just  in  sight 
and  now  coming  up  the  path  ;  and  so  she  would  lift  the  baby 
up  to  see  him  ;  but  no,  he  was  not  there — all  was  still  and  cold, 
and  white.  Presently  there  was  a  stamping  at  the  door. 
Myrie  hurried  to  open  it,  and  the  baby  reached  out  its  hands  ; 
but  it  was  not  the  husband  and  father.  Neighbor  Brisbane 
was  come  to  talk  with  him  about  some  proposed  improvement 
in  the  village — that  was  all  :  for  Charles  Robinson  was  looked 
upon  as  the  most  public-spirited  and  liberal  of  the  people 
among  whom  he  lived  ;  and  it  was  largely  owing  to  his  gene- 
rous encouragement  and  aid  that  the  new  school-house  was 
built,  and  the  meeting-house,  and  the  Lyceum-hall,  and  the 
turnpike-road  ;  in  fact,  and  in  short,  that  the  village  was  the 
pretty,  and  populous  and  thrifty  village  it  was.  Mr.  Brisbane 
said  he  had  heard  of  the  failure  of  a  great  bank  in  town,  and 
he  feared  it  was  business  connected  with  that  which  kept 
Charley  so  late.  Any  excuse  was  a  relief  to  Myrie,  and  she  felt 


112  HASTY   WOEDS,  AXD   THEIR   APOLOGY. 

for  a  moment  that  if  that  were  all  she  should  not  care,  even 
though  every  cent  were  gone  with  the  bank.  Mr.  Brisbane 
said,  too,  that  it  was  reported  that  Peter  Mendenhall  had  run 
away,  but  that  he  hoped  it  was  not  true.  Myrie  said  she 
hoped  not ;  but  just  then  she  cared  very  little  whether  or  not 
Peter  Mendenhall  had  run  away  with  the  thousand  dollars 
Charley  had  lent  him.  Once  or  twice  neighbor  Brisbane  arose 
to  go  ;  but  Myrie  said  so  earnestly,  "  Won't  you  wait  a  little 
longer  ?  I  am  sure  he  will  come  " — that  he  stayed  more  for  her 
sake  than  to  talk  with  Charley. 

At  last  they  sat  by  the  fire  very  still,  for  it  is  hard  for  one 
to  keep  up  talk  where  there  are  two,  and  for  her  life  Myrie 
could  not  say  anything  but,  "  Why  doesn't  Charley  come  ? 
Oh  !  why  doesn't  he  come  ?" 

The  baby  was  wide  awake,  quietly  watching  the  door,  when 
the  gate-latch  made  a  joyful  sound  ;  then  came  a  quick  step, 
the  door  opened,  and  a  stranger  stood  before  them  ;  his  clothes 
frozen  stiff  about  him,  and  his  words  frozen  too.  He  was  come 
to  tell  the  saddest  news  that  ever  can  be  told.  Charley  was 
dead.  When  he  had  ended  the  story  the  baby  left  its  watching 
towards  the  door,  and  with  lips  curling  and  trembling  with  the 
bitter  cry  it  did  not  make  aloud,  hid  its  face  in  the  cradle- 
pillow  and  would  not  be  comforted. 

Poor  Charley  1  he  had  gone  bravely,  generously — just  as  he 
had  lived. 

As  he  was  riding  homeward,  he  saw  a  boy  who  was  skating 
on  the  ice  suddenly  slip  under,  and  springing  to  the  ground,  he 
plunged  in,  brought  him  up,  bore  him  almost  ashore,  and  with 
the  effort  that  lodged  him  on  safe  ground,  slipped  himself,  went 
down  under,  and  was  lost ! 


HASTY   WORDS,  AND  THEIE   APOLOGY.  113 

Poor,  poor  Charley  ! 

"  When  the  deep  gives  up  its  dead  you  will  see  him,"  said 
good  Mr.  Brisbane,  and  he  laid  his  trembling  hands  on  Myrie's 
head,  stricken  down  with  that  sorrow  which  will  not  know 
hope  ;  for  across  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death  hope  trav- 
els slowly. 

Misfortune  comes  not  singly,  it  is  often  said,  and  I  think 
there  is  truth  in  the  saying.  So  it  is  with  good  fortune — an 
agreeable  thing  rarely  comes  to  us  isolated  ;  there  is,  perhaps, 
attractive  power  in  a  good  thing  for  its  kind,  and  in  a  bad 
thing  for  its  kind,  and  so  it  comes  that  if  we  slip,  our  neighbor 
gives  us  a  push  ;  and  "if  we  have  a  sheep  and  a  cow,  every- 
body gives  us  good-morrow." 

Mr.  Brisbane's  fears  were  not  without  foundation  ;  it  was 
true  that  Peter  Mendenhall  had  run  away,  and  that  the  bank 
where  Charley  Robinson  had  -put  his  money  for  safe  keeping 
(and  so  done  what  everybody  said  was  a  very  wise  thing  in 
Charley  Kobinsou)  was  gone  to  ruin,  and  Mrs.  Robinson  saw  her- 
self a  widow,  with  poverty,  if  not  actually  at  the  door,  coming 
thither  very  fast.  She  knew  nothing  about  self-reliance,  and  it 
is  not  easy  to  stretch  one's  self  up  to  an  equality  with  fate, 
especially  when  there  is  a  great  sorrow  dragging  us  down. 
We  are  more  likely  to  sit  and  nurse  our  woes,  most  of  us,  till 
necessity  says,  "  arise  or  perish,"  than  to  gather  up  our  cour- 
age and  press  on  alone.  So  sat  poor  Myrie,  a  long,  long 
time. 

The  ring  which  Luther  had  given  her  on  the  day  of  betrothal 
she  had  always  worn  on  the  finger  with  the  wedding  ring  ;  but 
now,  as  if  it  were  a  wrong  to  poor  Charley,  she  took  it  off,  and 
wore  only  the  wedding-ring.  Every  book  he  had  liked  was 


114  HASTY   WORDS,  AND  THEIE   APOLOGY. 

preserved  with  scrupulous  care,  every  flower  he  had  planted 
tended  better  than  the  rest,  and  her  best  comfort  was  in  telling 
the  little  Lucy  what  a  good  father  she  had  had,  and  how  many 
things  he  would  have  done  for  her  if  he  had  lived,  and  in  ask- 
ing her  over  and  over  if  she  remembered  how  he  looked,  or  any 
word  he  had  ever  said  to  her  ;  and  whether  it  were  from 
hearing  it  so  often,  I  know  not,  but  the  child  learned  to  say 
father  long  before  she  could  say  mother. 

When  the  little  girl  could  run  about,  she  looked  like  another 
Myrie.  Her  faded  dresses  and  bare  feet  looked  like  hers  too  ; 
her  brown  eyes  only  had  more  sadness  and  less  sparkle  than 
her  mother's  had  at  the  same  time  of  life. 

We  are  soon  forgotten  when  we  cease  to  minister  to  the 
happiness  of  others,  and  a  great  deal  of  beauty  is  reflected  in 
the  face  sometimes  from  a  costly  dress  ;  certain  it  is,  Myrie 
was  never  praised  any  more  except  for  her  nice  nee  die- work, 
which  was  more  in  demand  than  her  company,  when  the  table 
that  used  to  be  so  bountifully  spread  was  left  against  the  wall, 
and  nothing  more  than  bread  and  butter  on  it. 

The  pretty  cottage  and  the  grounds  went  out  of  repair,  and 
one  room  was  let,  and  then  another,  till  finally  there  was  but 
one  poor  chamber  left  for  Myrie  and  her  little  girl. 

And  the  village  grew  and  flourished,  and  children  grew  to 
"  fair  women  and  brave  men."  Lucy  grew  with  the  rest  in 
beauty  as  well  as  height,  but  nobody  thought  of  calling  Lucy 
beautiful.  Laurie  Morton,  who  had  a  rough  red  face  and  an 
impudent  stare,  was  thought  to  be  a  great  beauty  ;  everybody 
saw  her  big  costly  ear-rings,  and  nobody  saw  her  big  ugly  ears  ; 
her  father  was  a  very  rich  man,  and  of  course  Laurie's  beauty 
could  not  be  questioned. 


HASTY   WORDS,  A?O)   THEIR   APOLOGY".  115 

Annie  Clough,  too,  a  white-haired  pale-faced,  slim  young 
woman,  with  no  particular  expression  in  her  grey  eyes,  but 
with  a  great  deal  of  money  prospectively  in  her  purse,  was 
thought  to  be  of  quite  an  elegant  order  of  beauty,  and  a  dozen 
children  of  the  town  were  named  Annie  Clough,  and  lifted  up 
to  kiss  the  pale  cheek  of  the  young  woman  as  often  as  possible. 
But  Lucy  Robinson  had  no  namesakes,  and  only  the  winds 
kissed  her  fair  cheeks.  She  was  only  the  daughter  of  a  widow, 
and  a  seamstress. 

In  the  free-school  and  the  Sunday-school  she  could  say  as 
good  lessons  as  any  of  them  ;  but  it  happened  she  never  won  the 
first  prize,  nor  the  second.  Her  quiet  manner,  and  wealth  of 
hair  and  soft  and  wondrous  eyes,  were  not  so  striking  to  the 
vulgar  gaze  as  the  broad  bright  stripes  of  Laurie  Morton's 
dresses,  or  the  dead  pallor  of  Annie  Clough. 

The  day  Lucy  was  fifteen-  years  old,  she  came  home  from 
school  with  her  eyes  m9re  filled  with  shadows  than  their  wont, 
and,  turning  her  face  from  her  mother,  bent  low  over  her  open 
book.  Bending  at  her  weary  task  sat  the  mother,  as  she  had 
sat  all  day  long.  At  length,  drawing  a  long  breath  of  relief, 
and  breaking  her  thread,  she  said,  "  What  is  the  matter,  my 
child  r 

Lucy  replied  that  she  had  studied  hard  that  day  and  knew 
her  lessons  quite  perfectly,  and  yet  had  received  more  bad 
marks  than  good  ones. 

"  Well,  never  mind,"  said  the  mother  ;  "  but  tie  on  your 
bonnet  and  carry  home  this  bundle  of  work,  for  you  know  how 
badly  the  money  is  needed — indeed,  we  have  no  tea  nor  bread 
to-night." 

It  was  a  pretty  collar  for  Annie  Clough,  and  a  gay  skirt 


116  HASTY   WORDS,  AND   THEIR   APOLOGY. 

for  Laurie  Morton,  that  Mrs.  Robinson  had  just  finished  ;  and 
half  smiling  and  half  crying,  Lucy  took  the  parcel  and  did  as 
she  was  directed  ;  but  when  she  returned,  half  an  hour  later, 
the  smile  was  wholly  gone— she  was  crying  outright.  Mrs. 
Morton  had  said  nothing  about  paying  for  the  work,  and  Miss 
Clough  was  not  at  home.  "  I  met  her,  though,"  said  Lucy, 
"  walking  with  Laurie  Morton,  and  neither  of  them  noticed  me 
at  all."  Mother  and  daughter  went  supperless  to  bed  that  night, 
and  sad  enough. 

A  night  or  two  after  this,  Lucy  brought  home  most  of  her 
books — there  would  not  be  any  school  the  next  day — there 
would  be  a  great  meeting  of  citizens  in  the  afternoon,  and  a 
dinner,  hi  honor  of  some  distinguished  gentleman  and  traveller 
who  had  just  arrived.  "  Mrs.  Morton,  don't  you  think,"  con- 
tinued Lucy,  "  is  to  give  a  fine  ball ;  and  that  is  what  you 
made  the  lace  capes  and  things  for,  mother." 

After  a  moment  she  added,  pettishly,  "  Well,  they  may  have 
their  fine  ball  and  their  fine  traveller  too  ;  don't  you  say  so, 
mother  ?" 

"  Certainly,  my  child,"  replied  Mrs.  Robinson — and  directly 
she  asked  Lucy  if  she  knew  who  it  was  that  was  come  ?  "  You 
read  so  much,  you  perhaps  know  something  of  him,"  she  said. 

Lucy  tossed  back  her  curls,  quite  contrary  to  her  usual 
method  of  softly  brushing  them  away,  and  replied  that  she 
never  heard  of  him  in  her  life,  and  that  his  name  was  Brisby, 
she  believed.  The  quickened  beating  of  Mrs.  Robinson's  heart 
caused  the  work  to  drop  from  her  hands,  and  a  bright,  warm 
blush  clouded  the  settled  pallor  of  her  cheek.  She  turned  away, 
seeming  to  search  for  her  lost  needle,  and  asked  Lucy  again 
what  she  said  the  stranger's  name  was. 


HASTY   WORDS,  AND  THEIR  APOLOGY.  117 

"  Bushby,"  answered  the  girl,  "  I  did  not  call  it  right 
before,  did  I  ?" 

Mrs.  Robinson  drew  a  long  sigh — half  of  regret  and  half  of 
relief,  and  presently  patting  down  her  work,  unlocked  a  drawer, 
opened  a  miniature  case,  kissed  the  poor  semblance  of  what 
was  once  Charley,  and  when  she  returned  to  her  seat  the  quiet 
and  the  customary  paleness  were  back  again.  But  she  did  not 
work  any  more  for  a  long  while,  and  sat  silent,  rocking  to  and 
fro  till  the  shadows  had  deepened  into  night,  and  till  long  after 
that. 

Lucy  brought  her  stool  to  her  mother's  feet  presently,  leaned 
her  cheek  on  her  knee,  and  with  her  long  hair  dropping  down 
her  neck  and  shoulder,  and  almost  to  the  floor,  fell  asleep,  quite 
unconscious  of  the  strange  tumult  her  careless  words  had  awak- 
ened and  stilled. 

While  they  sat  so,  mother  and  child,  in  their  dark  little 
room,  Mrs.  Morton's  fine  house  was  full  of  lights  and  merriment. 
Laurie  choked  on  the  tea,  and  was  obliged  to  leave  the  table 
in  convulsions  of  laughter.  "Dear  Annie  Clough,"  she  ex* 
claimed  at  length,  "did  you  ever  hear  anything  so  prepos- 
terous ?"  But  that  white  little  person  had  turned  aside,  and 
was  concluding  her  laughter  with  a  violent  cough.  Still  hold- 
ing both  her  sides,  Laurie  resumed  her  seat,  and  as  soon  as  she 
could  calm  herself  sufficiently,  said,  "  Seriously,  mother,  it  is 
not  possible  you  thought  of  asking  old  widow  Robinson  and  her 
girl  ;  a  pretty  figure  they  would  make  at  our  ball,  wouldn't 
they.  Why  the  widow  is  forty  years  old,  ain't  she  ?" 

"  No,  my  dear  ;  not  much  more  than  thirty,"  answered  Mrs. 
Morton,  who  was  really  a  good  and  kind-hearted  woman  ;  and 
she  added,  "  when  you  young  girls  are  thirty  you  will  find  your 


118   .  HASTY   WOKDS,  AND   THEIE   APOLOGY. 

hearts  feeling  just  as  young  as  they  do  now,  perhaps  ;  and 
besides,  Mrs.  Robinson  and  Mr.  Brisbane  were  thought  to  be 
lovers  once." 

"  Oh  mother  1"  cried  Laurie,  and  "  Oh,  Mrs.  Morton,  !"  cried 
Annie  ;  "  it  is  not  possible  I" 

"  Why,  Mr.  Brisbane  is  just  in  his  prime,  young  enough  for 
either  of  us,  and  Mrs.  Robinson  is  an  old  woman." 

Mrs.  Morton  repeated  again  that  Mrs.  Robinson  could  not  be 
much  beyond  thirty,  and  going  back  to  the  time  Lucy  was  born 
guessed  at  how  old  Myrie  was  then,  and  so  guessed  again  at 
what  Lucy's  age  must  then  be,  and  assured  the  laughing  young 
ladies  that  Myrie  Robinson  could  not  be  more  than  thirty- 
three. 

"  At  any  rate,"  said  Laurie,  "  it  would  be  an  absurdity  to 
ask  her  to  our  house  to  meet  Mr.  Brisbane.  Why,  he  is  the 
handsomest  man  I  ever  saw,  and  rich  too,  it  is  said,  and  she  a 
poor  old  sewing  woman — ridiculous  !" 

Mrs.  Morton  was  half  ashamed  of  her  suggestion,  and  said 
she  had  not  really  thought  of  inviting  Mrs.  Robinson  ;  and 
to  smoothe  over,  in  some  sort,  the  terrible  absurdity  of  the 
thing,  she  related  to  the  young  ladies  what  she  knew,  and  the 
much  more  she  had  heard,  respecting  the  relations  existing  long 
ago  between  the  handsome  Mr.  Brisbane  and  the  widow. 

They,  however,  could  not  believe  there  had  ever  been  any 
serious  attachment  between  them  ;  they  knew,  indeed,  there 
could  have  been  none  on  Mr.  Brisbane's  part.  In  short,  they 
concluded  the  girl  Myrie,  as  any  other  presuming  dependent 
might  foolishly  do,  had  fallen  in  love  with  the  elegant  student, 
and  probably  married  at  last  to  cover  the  mortification  of  defeat. 

Mrs.  Morton  said  it  was  not  unlikely,  but  she  said  it  with  an 


HASTY  WORDS,  AXD   THEIB   APOLOGY.  119 

ill  grace,  and  had  evidently  her  own  thoughts  in  the  matter  ; 
and  when  she  arose  from  her  nicely  spread  tea-table,  she  said, 
with  some  heartiness,  she  would  go  and  see  Myrie  Robinson 
before  a  week,  aud  her  manner  seemed  to  say,  "  Laugh  as  you 
will  you  cannot  keep  me  from  doing  that." 

Lively  and  busy  times  there  were  in  the  village,  but  Mrs. 
Robinson's  little  room  was  as  still  and  as  lonesome  as  usual. 
Lucy  selected  the  poems  in  her  school-books,  and  read  them  to 
her  mother  again  and  again  ;  sometimes  she  even  ventured  upon 
a  song,  but  it  generally  ended  in  a  sigh,  for  poor  Lucy  had  no 
mates  and  no  joys  but  her  duties,  and  such  reflective  silences 
as  were  little  suited  to  her  years. 

It  was  a  sunshiny  day  of  about  the  middle  of  August,  that 
they  saw,  mother  and  child,  through  the  dusty  vines  at  the 
window,  the  many  people  hurrying  to  the  grand  reception,  for 
which  the  school  had  given  uts  recess,  and  for  which  so  many 
preparations  had  been  making  the  week  past  ;  they  saw  as  if 
they  saw  not,  for  it  was  not  for  them,  poor  and  unmirthful,  to 
have  to  do  with  festivals. 

"  Dear  mother,"  spoke  Lucy  at  last,  "  don't  sew  any  more 
to-day  ;"  and  with  gentle  force  she  took  the  work  from  her 
weary  hands  aud  folded  it  away.  "  No,  no,  my  child,"  said  the 
mother  ;  "  what  will  become  of  us  if  I  leave  off  working  ?" 

Lucy  opened  the  hymn-book,  one  of  the  few  books  they  had, 
and  read  : 

"  Judge  not  the  Lord  by  feeble  sense, 

But  trust  him  for  his  grace ; 
Behind  a  frowning  providence 
He  hides  a  smiling  face." 

She  added  nothing,  but  the  mother  saw  the  beautiful  and  trust- 
ing light  in  her  face,  and  suffered  the  work  to  be  laid  away. 


120  HASTY   WOEDS,  AND   THEIR   APOLOGY. 

"  Dear  good  mother  ?"  exclaimed  the  happy  child,  and  pull- 
ing down  her  long  hair,  she  combed  and  curled  it  as  she 
saw  it  in  the  picture  that  was  laid  away.  There  was  a  gentle 
protest  against  the  curls,  but  the  mother  yielded  in  that  too, 
though  when  they  were  made  she  pushed  them  back  half  care- 
lessly and  half  conscientiously,  for  she  had  worn  her  hair  all  put 
plainly  away  since  Charley  died.  Lucy  declared  that  her 
mother  had  actually  added  to  the  beautiful  effect  of  the  curls, 
and  in  her  strangely  playful  and  sunny  mood  brought  forth 
from  the  drawer  the  white  dress  she  so  liked  to  see  her  mother 
wear.  "  Really,"  she  said,  standing  apart  and  looking  at  her  in 
loving  admiration  when  she  was  dressed,  "  nobody  would  believe 
you  were  my  mother,  you  look  so  young,  and  oh,  so  pretty  1" 
and,  indeed,  they  did  look  more  like  sisters  than  like  mother 
and  child.  She  tied  on  her  hood  directly,  and,  concealing  a 
small  basket  under  her  apron,  went  out,  saying  only  that  she 
would  be  back  in  an  hour  or  two.  It  was  her  habit  to  wander 
often  about  the  woods  and  fields  ;  but  it  was  not  simply  her 
own  pleasure  she  was  seeking  that  day.  She  saw  everybody 
having  a  holiday,  and,  after  her  own  fashion,  she  was  trying  to 
make  one  too,  and  the  concealed  basket  she  hoped  to  bring 
home  full  of  berries — an  addition  to  the  supper  which  would 
happily  surprise  her  mother ;  but  little  did  she  then  dream  of  all 
the  happy  surprise  she  was  preparing  for  her.  She  knew  well 
where  the  vines  were,  and  that  the  berries  were  ripe  to  black- 
ness ;  but  she  turned  her  feet  away  from  them,  and  hurried 
towards  Mr.  Brisbane's  house,  to  ask  the  liberty  which  she  knew 
would  be  cordially  accorded.  She  did  not  see  the  old  family 
carriage  moving  up  the  road,  and  Mrs.  Brisbane,  in  her  best 
black  silk  dress,  seated  so  comfortably  and  so  respectably 


HASTY  WORDS,  AND   THEIE  APOLOGY.  121 

beside  her  husband  ;  she  was  thinking  where  the  ripest  berries 
were,  and  of  the  nice  supper  they  would  have  at  home,  and 
lightly  crossing  the  porch,  tapped  on  the  door  of  the  parlor, 
which  stood  ajar.  "  I  have  come  to  ask  you,  Mr.  Brisbane," 
she  said,  stepping  within  the  room,  "  if  I  might  go  to  the  hedge 
for  berries." 

Luther  Brisbane — for  it  was  he  who  was  reading  by  the  win- 
dow— dropped  the  paper  he  held,  and  in  his  bewilderment  said 
nothing. 

Astonished  at  his  silence,  Lucy,  rubbing  her  sunblinded  eyes, 
drew  nearer,  saying,  "  Dear  father  (for  she  often  called  Mr. 
Brisbane  so),  what  is  the  matter  ?" 

"  My  pretty  child,"  he  said,  in  tones  tremulous  with  emotion, 
"  you  have  mistaken  me,  I  fear.  I  have  no  right  to  the  name 
you  call  me."  Blushing  and  ashamed,  Lucy  explained  and 
apologized  as  well  as  she  could,  and  having  obtained  leave  to 
pick  the  berries,  hurried  away,  scarcely  in  her  confusion,  hav- 
ing noticed  the  many  questions  the  stranger  asked  in  reference 
to  her  home  and  her  mother.  She  reached  the  hedge  and  filled 
her  basket  before  she  was  aware,  so  full  of  thoughts  was  her 
heart,  and  hastened  home  to  relate  her  little  adventure. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Mrs.  Robinson,  "  he  came  directly  here  and 
told  me  all  about  it  ;  he  is  an  old  friend  of  your  mother's  ;  we 
were  playmates  you  know  ;"  and  she  added,  after  a  moment, 
that  he  had  partly  engaged  to  come  back  and  drink  tea  with 
them  ;  but  she  hardly  thought  he  would  do  so,  he  would  receive 
so  many  better  invitations.  However,  the  supper  was  arranged 
for  three,  and  not  in  vain  ;  that  little  room,  with  its  loved 
inhabitants,  was  to  Luther  the  brightest  spot  he  had  ever 

found. 

6 


122  HASTY   WORDS,  AND  THEIR   APOLOGY. 

Mrs.  Morton's  guests  waited  wearily  for  the  most  honored 
guest  of  all.  At  last  he  came,  so  late  as  to  make  necessary  an 
apology.  Laurie's  bright  flounces  seemed  to  drop  suddenly 
from  their  wide  flaunting,  and  Miss  Clough's  white  cheek  grew 
still  whiter,  if  possible,  when  they  knew  it  was  Mrs.  Robinson 
who  had  come  between  them  and  their  crowning  pleasure. 

"  I  told  you  so,  young  ladies,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Morton,  lifting 
one  finger  in  sly  exultation  ;  but  Laurie  stoutly  maintained  that 
she  was  the  first  to  suggest  the  propriety  of  inviting  Mrs. 
Kobiuson,  and  Annie  Clough  was  quite  sure  she  had  seconded 
the  proposal. 

It  was  December  again,  the  snow  lay  white  and  cold  over  all 
the  ground  ;  the  wind  blew  roughly,  now  and  then  sending  the 
flame  down  the  chimney,  and  almost  to  the  feet  of  Myrie  and 
Luther,  for  we  may  call  them  so  again,  rattling  the  shutters, 
and  sometimes  driving  quite  through  the  broken  pane.  Myrie's 
hands  were  clasped  together,  and  her  eyes  rested  on  the  ground; 
but  Luther's  eyes  were  resting  on  her  lovingly,  tenderly,  and 
his  hands  moving  uneasily,  as  if  they  sought  something.  At 
length  she  raised  her  eyes  and  asked  Luther — for  woman  is  apt 
to  be  impatient  of  such  silences — whether  it  was  the  rough 
night  he  was  thinking  of  ? 

"  Myrie,"  said  he,  taking  both  her  little  hands  in  his,  clasped 
together  as  they  were,  "  do  you  remember  once  when  I  said — 
no  matter  what  I  said — something  that  was  rash,  boyish, 
foolish — wicked,  I  am  afraid — and  you  gave  me  twenty  years 
to  frame  an  apology  ?" 

The  trembling  of  Myrie's  hands  showed  that  she-remembered, 
but  she  said  nothing,  and  he  went  on  :  "  All  those  twenty 
years  I  have  tried  to  frame  that  apology,  and  now  I  have  only 


HASTY   WORDS,  AND   THEIK   APOLOGY.  123 

to  throw  myself  on  your  goodness,  your  generosity  ;  for  what  I 
said  there  can  be  no  apology  made.  Can  you  forgive  me  ?" 
The  tears  were  in  Myrie's  eyes  ;  the  deep  humility  of  the  strong, 
proud  man  had  touched  her  heart,  and,  in  a  voice  sweet  and 
unsteady,  she  answered  she  had  nothing  to  forgive,  just  as  she 
would  have  answered  twenty  years  before  if  he  could  only  have 
bent  his  stubborn  will  to  speak  those  simple  words.  How  it 
ended  the  reader  sees  well  enough,  and  I  will  only  add  that 
Lucy  stammered  and  blushed  anew  when,  an  hour  after  the 
apology,  Mr.  Brisbane  awoke  her  with  a  kiss — for  with  cheek 
resting  on  her  arm  she  had  been  asleep  all  the  evening — awoke 
her,  and  asking  if  she  remembered  calling  him  father  by  mistake 
when  they  first  met,  said  that  for  the  future  it  would  be  a 
mistake  if  she  called  him  anything  else,  and  that  he  hoped  to 
merit  at  least  some  part  of  the  affection  and  respect  belonging 
to  that  name. 

The  ring  of  betrothal  took  its  old  place  again,  but  the  wed- 
ding-ring— Charley's,  ring  was  never  removed.  Happy  as  mortals 
may  expect  to  be,  their  lives  glided  on  ;  but  in  spite  of  all  the 
brightness  around  her,  in  spite  of  all  efforts  to  the  contrary,  some 
days  were  full  of  clouds  and  shadows  to  Myrie,  and  at  such  times 
she  was  sure  to  say  Charley  instead  of  Luther — he  had  spokeu 
no  word  to  her  that  it  was  not  sweet  to  remember,  and  held  to 
the  last  the  purest  place  in  her  heart — let  us  not  be  curious  to 
know  whether  the  deepest  or  not,  or  if  the  glitter  of  gratified 
ambition  and  pride  did  not  dissolve  itself  into  a  vain  and  foolish 
thing  when  set  against  the  memory  of  a  heartfelt  smile.  Of 
course  Mrs.  Brisbane  became  the '  pet  and  admiration  of  the 
people  among  whom  she  lived,  especially  among  those  who  had 
been  least  conscious  of  her  existence  previously  to  her  second 


124  HASTY   WORDS,  AND   THEIE   APOLOGY. 

marriage  ;  but  "  she  had  learned  the  world's  cold  wisdom  "  now, 
she  had  learned  to  pause  and  fear  ;  and  doubtless  it  was  well,  else 
might  her  heart  have  been  made  vain  by  the  constant  adulation, 
and  her  life  have  been  rather  a  strife  to  be  great  than  good. 
As  it  was,  she  never  forgot  the  instability  of  earthly  things,  or 
ceased  from  laying  up  treasures  were  moth  and  rust  doth  not 
corrupt.  So  we  leave  her  with  her  wealth  ;  her  husband, 
hospitable  and  stately  ;  her  daughter,  beautiful  and  dewy  as  a 
rose-bud  ;  her  sacred  memory,  and  her  heavenly  hope. 


SARAH    MORRIS. 


SARAH  MORRIS  was  termed  a  smart  girl  by  everybody  who 
knew  her,  and  her  acquaintance  was  only  limited  by  the  num- 
ber of  people  in  the  neighborhood.  And  with  all  she  was  a 
favorite,  as  she  deserved  to  be,  for  she  was  blessed  with  a 
large  share  of  plain,  common  sense  ;  and  beneath  the  fun 
and  frolic  that  always  sparkled  on  the  surface  of  her  nature 
there  was  a  quick  intelligence,  a  singularly  happy  tact,  and  a 
generous  amiability.  ^ 

She  was  not  pretty,  but  there  was  a  heartiness  in  the  grasp 
of  her  little  black  hand,  and  a  cordiality  in  the  brightness  that 
illuminated  her  little,  dark  face,  when  it  approached  you,  that 
made  you  forget  her  plainness  ;  for  plain  she  certainly  would 
have  been  to  critical,  or  indifferent  eyes,  if  such  could  have 
looked  upon  her. 

There  was  a  rough  honesty  in  her  nature  that  no  refined 
instinct  counteracted  the  expression  of,  and  that  ears  polite 
would  have  required  to  be  toned  down  ;  but  with  the  unculti- 
vated people  among  whom  she  dwelt,  it  was,  perhaps  her  most 
potent  charm.  Wherever  there  was  funeral,  or  church,  or 
quilting,  wedding  or  sickness,  there  came  a  sprightly  little 
body,  black-handed,  and  black-haired,  and  black-eyed,  laugh- 
ing or  weeping,  as  the  case  might  require,  active  with  words 

126 


126  SARAH    MOKKIS. 

and  works,  or  coquettish  with  nods  and  becks — tossing  of  rib- 
bons and  flirting  with  parasol  and  fan — rustling  and  stirring, 
and  winning  all  eyes  from  their  tears  or  their  devotions — and 
that  was  Sarah  Morris. 

Her  horse  was  the  gayest  and  the  best  groomed  of  any  one 
in  the  neighborhood,  the  cushion  of  her  saddle  of  the  deepest 
crimson,  and  its  stirrup  of  the  most  elaborate  silver  plate.  No 
sober  filly  for  her  !  and  many  a  time  her  scorn  and  derision 
came  in  the  shape  of  a  cut  across  the  flank  of  the  more  gentle 
and  unsuspecting  one  her  neighbor  rode. 

But  when  the  offender  was  discovered  nobody  was  ever 
offended,  and  the  quick  spring  of  the  animal  and  the  jolt  of 
the  startled  rider  were  sure  to  be  followed  by  a  laugh  and  a 
good-humored  exclamation. 

She  might  catch  the  chair  from  beneath  her  grandmother 
and  send  her  headlong  to  the  floor,  but  nothing  was  thought 
of  it  by  anybody,  except  that  it  was  Sally  Morris's  way.  She 
might  laugh  in  meeting  so  loud  as  to  make  half  the  heads  in 
the  congregation  turn  towards  her,  but  still  it  was  Sally's  way, 
and  no  face  was  so  rigedly  solemnized  that  it  would  not  relax 
when  it  saw  the  black  eyes  of  Sally  twinkling  above  her  fan. 

How  lightly  she  used  to  spring  upon  the  back  of  her  dapple- 
grey,  spurning  the  assistance  of  the  many  hands  reached  out  to 
assist  her,  and  how  proudly  she  galloped  away,  sending  a  cloud 
of  dust  in  the  faces  of  her  admirers,  for  their  worshipful  pains  ! 

"  Touch  us  gently,  gentle  time,"  was  a  song  that  Sarah  had 
no  inward  prompting  to  sing.  She  was  equal,  she  felt,  to  all 
changes  and  to  all  chances  ;  and,  in  truth,  her  little  black 
hands,  with  the  assistance  of  her  shining  black  eyes,  could 
well  make  their  way  through  opposing  combinations. 


SARAH   MOEEIS.  127 

There  was  nothing  to  which  she  could  not  turn  her  talents, 
from  raking  in  the  hay-field  and  dropping  corn,  to  the  braiding 
of  a  straw  bonnet  and  the  fashioning  of  a  silk  gown  ;  and  a 
good  deal  of  broad,  brilliant  taste  had  Sarah,  as  was  always 
manifested  in  the  gay  colors  and  striking  contrasts  she  wore. 

The  black  hair  under  her  red  ribbons,  the  bright  blue  petti- 
coat, and  the  flaunting  rainbow  sash  gave  .her  quite  the  air  of 
some  half-civilized  Indian  queen,  as,  on  her  gallant  grey,  she 
leaped  fences  and  divided  hedges  and  underbrush  as  lightly  as 
the  rye-stalks. 

The  glee  of  the  children  was  doubled  when  they  saw  her,  and 
breathlessly  they  hurried  into  the  house  to  communicate  the 
fact  of  her  having  ridden  past  as  a  piece  of  most  stirring  news. 
The  young  men  paused  from  their  occupations  in  the  wayside 
fields  as  she  rode  by,  and  were  ready  to  throw  off  their  enthu- 
siasm by  shouts  and  hurrahs*for  anything,  at  any  moment,  for 
hours  thereafter. 

Doubtless  they  would  have  sighed  many  a  time,  if  they  had 
not  felt  the  utter  futility  of  such  an  expenditure  of  breath,  as 
she  disappeared  behind  the  next  hill,  or  as  the  woods  shut  her 
in. 

No  love-lorn  maiden  dare  show  her  pining  cheek  in  Sarah's 
presence,  for  her  laugh  of  scorn  and  derision  was  never  done 
ringing  from  one  to  another  of  her  young  acquaintances. 

"  What  fools  you  are,"  she  would  say,  "  to  put  your  hearts 
out  of  your  own  keeping,  and  then  cry  to  have  them  back  ; 
just  as  if  any  bear  of  a  man  would  take  as  good  care  of  them 
as  yourselves  ! 

"  I  wish  some  of  your  charmers  would  steal  my  heart,"  she 
used  to  say  ;  "  I'd  show  you  how  long  they  would  keep  it  in  tor- 


128  SARAH   MORRIS. 

ment.  Catch  me  crying  for  the  best  man  alive,  and  you  may 
expect  the  sky  to  fall  next. 

"  Just  as  if  all  the  goodness  in  the  world  could  be  in  any 
one  man,  supposing  him  even  to  be  '  all  your  fancy's  painted 
him.'  Why,  bless  me,  the  least  atom  of  common  sense  will 
teach  you  what  dunces  you  are  ! 

"  Let  me  tell  you,  a  feather  bed,  and  a  blanket,  and  a  good 
dinner  are  decidedly  more  cheerful  to  think  about  than  that 
little  dark  place  you  will  get  into  soon  enough.  Come,  pluck 
up  a  little  courage,  and  show  the  poor,  vain  coxcomb  that 
roses  can  grow  in  your  cheeks  independent  of  his  plant- 
ing." 

This  was  her  softest  manifestation  of  sympathy  and  comfort, 
and  if  the  disease  yielded  not  to  this  method  she  was  apt  to 
resort  to  severer  applications. 

She  would  offer  to  gather  willows,  and  speak  in  solemnly  low 
and  affected  tones  of  her  friends'  grievances,  treading  on  tiptoe 
and  carefully  shutting  out  the  light — singing  hymns  of  awful 
dolor,  and  in  all  ways  possible  exaggerating  into  the  ludicrous 
the  miserable  suffering  of  which  she  had  no  conception  ;  health- 
ful, light-hearted  creature  that  she  was. 

Sarah's  mother  was  a  common-sense,  common-place,  hard- 
working, hard-feeling  old  woman,  out  of  whose  nature  the 
sweetness  of  human  sympathy  seemed  to  have  died.  A  count- 
less number  of  wrinkles  in  her  cheeks  and  forehead  cradled  an 
everlasting  expression  of  care,  and  her  little  stumpy  feet,  trot- 
ted up  and  down,  and  down  and  up,  and  in  and  out,  and  out 
and  in,  from  morning  till  night,  and  from  year's  end  to  year's 
end.  She  never  went  from  home  and  never  stopped  toiling 
long  enough  to  contemplate  the  accumulations  of  her  industry. 


SAEAH   MOEEIS.  129 

There  was  no  holiday  for  her,  and  no  rest  except  in  the 
variations  of  her  work.  She  seldom  spoke,  except  it  were  to 
Job,  her  husband,  and  never  to  him  unless  to  scold. 

She  had  probably  married  because  four  hands  could  do  more 
work  than  two. 

But  why  Job  had  married  her  was  still  more  questionable — 
he  had  been  crazy  at  one  time  of  his  life,  and  it  may  have  been 
during  that  malady,  or  induced  by  it ;  for  certain  it  is,  no  mor- 
tal ever  saw  any  manifestation  of  love  for  the  other  on  the  part 
of  either  of  them  ;  but  though  it  would  be  curious  to  inquire 
into  the  origin  of  their  relation,  our  story  leads  us  forward,  not 
backward,  and  our  interest  in  the  latter  direction  must  be 
sacrificed. 

Enough  that  Sarah's  father  was  a  hardy,  hen-pecked  old 
man,  who  did  the  drudgery,  and  was  kept,  or  kept  himself, 
mostly  out  of  sight. 

Whether  he  was  ever  quite  sane,  nobody  could  determine, 
as  he  was  never  heard  to  say  enough,  and  never  seen  suffi- 
ciently to  warrant  a  conclusive  judgment.  If  he  appeared  at 
all,  it  was  only  in  dodging  from  one  concealment  to  another  ; 
and  if  he  spoke  at  all,  it  was  merely  in  reply  to  some  order 
from  Sarah  or  Sarah's  mother. 

Sarah  herself  has  been  known  to  say,  in  her  wildest  moods, 
that  he  had  vacant  rooms  in  the  garret. 

No  one  ever  thought  of  saying  Mr.  Morris  ;  it  was  all  old 
Job,  and  the  old  man  Morris  ;  and  the  greatest  deference  he 
ever  received  was  to  be  called  Sarah  Morris's  father,  as,  by 
some  of  her  more  favored  admirers,  he  has  been  know  to  be. 
Even  his  house  was  not  his  own,  nor  his  grounds  ;  both  were 
considered  and  designated  as  Sarah  Morris's,  and  in  truth,  and 

6* 


130  SARAH   MOKRIS. 

notwithstanding  the  shrew-tongue  of  her  mother,  she  was  mis- 
tress of  all. 

There  remains  yet  another  individual,  who,  together  with  her 
parents  and  herself,  comprised  all  the  household — this  was  a 
youth  named  Elijah  Burbank.  In  his  boyhood  he  had  been 
indentured  to  Job  Morris,  and  in  his  young  manhood,  as  he 
always  had  been,  was  known  by  the  opprobrious  epithet  of 
Sarah's  bound  boy. 

He  was  slight  and  delicate,  with  hands  as  small  as  those  of 
his  mistress,  and  much  fairer  ;  a  face  of  extreme  refinement, 
and  a  mouth  of  that  peculiarly  sensitive  expression  that  is  apt 
to  awaken  the  tenderest  sympathies  in  the  opposite  sex — and 
the  derision  of  men.  His  blue  eyes  and  soft  flaxen  hair  com- 
pleted the  effeminacy  of  his  appearance,  and  made  his  man- 
hood seem  farther  away  by  some  years  than  it  really  was. 

It  was  the  evening  of  the  day  that  Lije  was  twenty-one  years 
old  that  Sarah  sat  alone  on  the  high  south  porch,  known  as  the 
two-story  porch.  There  was  no  look-out  from  it  except  towards 
a  near  and  thick  wood,  and,  moreover,  it  was  prettly  closely 
curtained  by  trumpet  flower  and  creeper  vines  ;  so  the  view, 
snch  as  it  was,  was  considerably  obstructed  :  and  why  she 
chose  this  retired  position  was  perhaps  hardly  known  to  her- 
self, for  her  custom  was  to  recreate  of  evenings  on  the  steps 
of  the  front  portico — a  position  commanding  a  mile-length  view 
of  the  high  road. 

Out  upon  this  porch  opened  the  door  of  Elijah's  room,  and 
presently  out  of  Elijah's  room  came  with  a  soft  step  Elijah  him- 
self. 

He  was  dressed  in  his  new  freedom  suit ;  and  as  he  stood 
blushing  in  the  moonlight,  with  one  hand  hiding  itself  in  his 


SAEAH   MORRIS.  181 

yellow  curls,  there  came  to  the  heart  of  Sarah  a  feeling  of 
bashfulness  and  tremor  that  she  could  in  no  wise  account  for. 
"  What  do  you  want,  Lije  ?"  she  said  directly.  She  meant  by 
her  tone  to  demand  why  he  was  there,  but  somehow  it  yielded 
concession  and  solicited  confidence. 

"  I  want  you,"  Elijah  answered  timidly,  and  looking  down. 

Sarah  laughed  a  little  foolishly,  but  recovered  herself  quickly, 
and  answered,  playfully  extending  her  hand,  "  Well,  here  I 
am,  take  me." 

Elijah  took  the  hand  in  earnest  thus  offered  him  in  jest, 
and  bent  his  head  so  low  over  it  that  his  lips  more  than  touched 
it. 

"  Nonsense  1"  cried  Sarah,  withdrawing  her  hand,  "  if  you 
are  very  hungry,  Lije,  you  will  find  something  in  the  cupboard 
more  eatable  than  my  hand." 

Poor  Lije  !  abashed  and  trembling  for  what  he  had  done, 
dropped  on  one  knee  and  said,  "  I  only  wished,  Miss  Sarah,  to 
thank  you  for  all  your  goodness  to  me,  and  if  I — if  I  kissed 
your  hand,  it  was  because  I  could  not  help  it." 

"  And  if  I  box  your  ears,"  replied  Sarah,  "  it  is  because  I 
can't  help  it  ;"  so  saying  she  affected  to  slap  his  face,  but  it 
was  done  so  softly  with  the  tips  of  her  fingers  that  Lije  did  not 
suffer  any  physical  pain.  "  Besides,"  continued  Sarah,  "  what 
do  you  want  to  thank  me  for  ?  I  have  done  nothing  to 
deserve  your  thanks  that  I  know  of." 

"  Why,  Miss  Sarah,  do  you  forget  these  nice  new  clothes, 
and  then  your  goodness  to  me  all  the  while  for  so  many  years  ?" 

"  No,  Lije,  I  don't  forget  that  as  my  bound  boy  I  was  bound 
to  give  you  a  freedom  suit  ;  and,  by  the  by,  I  suppose  you  have 
come  to  remind  me  that  you  are  free." 


132  SAEAH   MORRIS. 

"  No  Sarah,  not  that ;  I  am  not  free — I  am  your  slave,  and 
always  shall  be."  He  bent  over  the  unresisting  hand  again 
and  kissed  it  again  ;  but  Sarah's  pride,  which  as  yet  was  the 
strongest  feeling  of  her  nature,  was  aroused  by  this  time,  and 
risiner  she  said,  "  I  am  glad  to  know  I  have  a  slave  ;  but  how 
do  you  think  you  will  like  Mr.  Hilton  for  a  master  ?" 

Poor  Lije  said  he  did  not  know,  and  went  despondently  away. 

The  Mr.  Hilton  alluded  to  was  an  old  admirer  of  Sarah's  ; 
and  though  it  was  suspected  by  Elijah  that  she  had  refused 
him  more  than  once,  he  was  none  the  less  annoyed  by  the 
intimation  she  threw  out.  So,  as  I  said,  he  went  moping  away, 
and  putting  his  hand  in  a  cutting-box  designed  to  chop  oats 
for  cattle,  made  as  if  he  would  cut  it  off,  almost  hoping  that  by 
accident  he  might  do  so,  and  that  Sarah  would  then  at  least 
pity  him.  He  felt  as  if  his  brain  had  undergone  some  fearful 
shattering,  and  for  his  life  he  could  not  tell  whether  Mr.  Hilton 
owned  a  thousand  or  fifteen  hundred  acres  of  land,  nor  could  he 
determine  whether  he  owned  two  flouring  mills  and  a  saw  mill, 
or  two  saw  mills  and  a  flouring  mill ;  but  he  was  fully  con- 
scious that  in  whatever  shape  his  riches  lay,  he  was  a  rich  man, 
and  that  the  black  shadow  of  his  big  stone  dwelling-house 
fell  right  over  him,  and  would  not  even  suffer  him  to  see  the 
sunshine.  His  heart  received  a  most  thrilling  telegraph  pres- 
ently in  the  voice  of  Sarah  calling  him  in  a  tone  softer  than 
its  wont.  She  had  spread  the  table  with  unusual  care,  and  was 
herself  waiting  to  serve  the  tea. 

The  little  that  was  said  during  the  meal  had  no  reference  to 
what  both  were  thinking  of.  Sarah  praised  the  new  clothes 
at  length,  and  intimated  that  Elijah  would  be  leaving  her  for 
some  better  place 


SARAH   MOBKIS.  138 

Elijah  remembered  that  she  had  called  him  her  bound  boy, 
and,  drawing  his  manhood  up  to  its  full  height,  replied  that  he 
should  try  to  find  some  place  to  live  where  he  was  not  despised, 
and  that  the  farm  of  his  mistress,  big  as  it  was,  did  not  com- 
prise the  whole  world. 

Sarah  replied,  with  a  proud  toss  of  her  head,  that  she  hoped 
he  would  not  only  find  a  nice  place  to  live,  but  that  he  would 
get  just  such  a  wife  as  he  desired,  and  she  supposed  that 
would  be  some  one  very  unlike  herself. 

"  Unlike  you  in  some  respects,  certainly,"  replied  Elijah, 
rising  from  the  supper  of  which  he  had  partaken  very  spar- 
ingly. 

Sarah  began  to  sing  gaily  as  she  tossed  the  dishes  together, 

"  I  care  for  nobody,  no,  not  I, 
Since  nobody  cares  for  me." 
^ 

Elijah  whistled  his  way  to  his  own  room,  but  returning 
directly,  threw  a  letter  into  Sarah's  lap,  saying  he  had  forgotten 
to  deliver  it  sooner,  and  was  especially  sorry  for  it,  as  it  was 
probably  from  her  lover,  Mr.  Hilton. 

Sarah  replied  that  she  hoped  so,  though  nothing  was  farther 
from  probabilities,  and  she  knew  it.  It  was  addressed  to  her 
mother,  and  in  the  writing  of  her  mother's  only  sister,  announc- 
ing her  severe  and  protracted  illness,  and  begging  her  sister  to 
come  and  see  her.  Sarah  did  not  that  night  go  through  the 
formality  of  making  the  reception  of  the  letter  known  to  her 
mother,  but  having  broken  the  seal  and  read  it,  retired  to  her 
own  room,  whether  to  think  of  Elijah  or  of  her  far-away  rela- 
tive was  known  only  to  herself. 

Sometime  in  the  course  of  the  following  day  Mrs.  Morris  was 


134  SARAH   MORRIS. 

made  acquainted  with  her  sister's  illness,  and  shortly  afterwards 
fifty  dollars  were  demanded  of  Job,  and  in  a  humor  of  especial 
courtesy,  Sarah  informed  him  that  she  was  going  to  visit  aunt 
Ruth,  and  that  her  return  was  uncertain. 

When  it  became  known  to  Elijah  that  she  was  actually  going 
from  home,  and  for  an  indefinite  time,  the  little  pride  that  had 
been  developed  in  him  wilted  away,  and  he  drooped  like  a  plant 
that  lacks  its  proper  nutriment.  "  If  you  are  going  away," 
he  said  one  day  to  Sarah,  "  I  will  remain  here  till  you  come 
back,  for  what  would  become  of  Job  if  both  of  us  were 
away  ?" 

"  Very  well,"  said  Sarah,  "  don't  let  the  old  man  suffer  ;" 
but  she  was  much  more  particular  and  earnest  in  her  directions 
for  the  care  of  her  favorite  riding  horse.  She  need  not  to  have 
given  any  orders  about  anything  that  was  hers,  and  Elijah  in  a 
trembling  voice  could  not  help  telling  her  so.  Sarah  tried  to 
laugh,  but  it  was  sorrowful  laughter,  and  turning  her  face 
away  asked  him — she  had  always  ordered  him  till  them — if  he 
would  bring  from  the  harvest-field  a  nice  bundle  of  rye  straw. 
An  hour  had  not  elapsed  when  it  was  laid  at  her  feet. 

Sarah  made  no  parting  calls,  and  left  no  messages  for  her 
friends — "  if  I  die,"  she  said,  "  what  good  will  it  have  done 
that  they  smiled  over  me  when  I  went  away  ;  and  if  I  live  to 
come  back,  why  we  shall  be  just  as  glad  to  see  each  other  as  if 
we  had  a  formal  parting." 

Up  to  the  last  moment  of  her  remaining  at  home,  poor  Elijah 
had  promised  his  trembling  heart  one  more  interview  with  her, 
and  what  was  his  disappointment  and  humiliation  to  find,  as  he 
sought  to  join  her  on  the  portico  the  evening  previous  to  her 
departure,  that  she  was  already  engaged  in  conversation  with 


SABAH   MORRIS.  135 

the  rich  miller,  Mr.  Hilton  !  All  that  night  there  was  a  rum- 
bling in  his  head  as  of  mill-wheels,  and  all  that  night  he 
dreamed  one  dream  over  and  over,  which  was  that  Sarah  had 
lost  all  her  proud  spirit  and  was  a  pale-cheeked  prisoner  of  Mr. 
Hilton's  gloomy  old  stone  house. 

The  miller  had  been  married  once,  and  report  said  the 
gloomy  old  stone  house  had  chilled  the  lost  wife  to  death  ;  but 
Sarah  only  laughed  when  this  was  told  her,  and  replied  that  if 
she  were  born  to  be  chilled  to  death  she  would  not  die  any  othei 
way  ;  to  the  miller  himself  she  was  capricious  as  an  April  day, 
now  shining  upon  him  in  smiles,  now  frowning  like  a  thunder- 
cloud ;  but  he  was  an  obstinate  prosecutor  of  his  purposes,  and 
in  no  wise  awed  by  a  cloud,  never  so  black  though  it  were.  It 
was  a  matter  of  interesting  speculation  among  Sarah's  acquain- 
tance whether  or  not  she  would  ever  marry  the  miller  ;  but  it 
was  the  opinion  of  the  shrewdest  of  them  that  she  was  merely 
dallying  with  him  as  the  cat  does  with  the  mouse,  and  that 
when  the  mood  suited  she  would  toss  him  aside  contemptuously 
and  forever. 

Probably  such  was  her  purpose  ;  but  she  loved  power,  and  as 
almost  all  her  young  friends  would  have  been  proud  of  his 
attentions,  she  exercised  through  him  a  pretty  extensive 
supremacy. 

To  Elijah,  the  big,  silent  house  of  Job  Morris  was  desolate 
enough  when  Sarah  was  gone — it  seemed  that  the  noon  would 
never  come,  and  when  it  was  noon  that  it  would  never  be  night. 
Job  worked  silently  on  the  same,  and  Sarah's  mother  scolded 
and  worked  the  same,  but  Sarah's  wheel  was  still  and  Sarah's 
busy  feet  were  not  to  be  seen,  and  so  to  Elijah  there  was 
nothing  worth  listening  to  in  the  world. 


136  SARAH    MORRIS. 

All  the  first  evening  long  he  sat  on  the  stoop  and  talked  with 
Sarah's  mother,  albeit  she  scolded  incessantly  ;  it  was  now  and 
then  about  Sarah  that  she  scolded,  and  to  hear  Sarah's  name 
pronounced  in  any  way  was  a  sort  of  miserable  happiness  to 
the  poor  young  man.  He  could  not  prevent  himself  from 
speaking  of  the  time  when  she  would  come  back,  as  if  it 
brought  it  any  nearer,  and  of  talking  of  places  greatly  more 
distant,  as  though  that  brought  her  nearer. 

She  had  bidden  him  adieu  with  some  careless  jest  about  the 
pain  of  parting,  and  he  could  not  avoid  recalling  the  tone  and 
the  manner  over  and  over,  and  of  trying  to  find  some  latent 
meaning  that  no  one  else  could  have  found.  Who  but  one  who 
is  famishing  for  hope,  can  judge  of  his  surprise  and  joy,  when 
on  entering  his  room  for  the  night,  he  discovered  lying  on  his 
bed,  where  Sarah  had  laid  it,  the  new  rye-straw  hat  she  had 
braided  for  him.  It  was  trimmed  with  a  bright  blue  ribbon, 
and  lined  daintily  with  silk  of  the  same  color,  and  with  this 
slight  and  perishable  foundation  to  rest  all  his  future  upon,  we 
will  leave  him  till  such  time  as  he  shall  again  cross  the  path  of 
our  story. 

The  husband  of  the  aunt  Ruth,  at  whose  door  Sarah  found 
herself  one  morning  in  June,  was  a  man  of  considerable  culti- 
vation and  some  wealth.  He  was  a  dealer  in  furs,  and 
employed,  in  one  way  and  another,  a  good  many  men,  in  one 
of  whom  only  we  are  particularly  interested — this  petson's 
name  was  Rodney  Hampton.  He  was  exceedingly  handsome, 
and  Sarah  thought  his  full  auburn  beard,  penetrating  blue  eyes, 
and  polished  manners  contrasted  with  every  one  she  had  known 
so  as  to  throw  them  altogether  in  the  shade.  Aunt  Ruth's 
home  was  a  comfortable  and  even  pretty  one,  situated  in  one 


SAKAH   MOEEIS.  137 

of  the  frontier  towns  of  the  West ;  but  there  was  a  refinement 
and  nicety  about  it  that,  to  Sarah's  uncultivated  ideas,  appeared 
the  height  of  style  and  elegance.  Aunt  Ruth  was  an  invalid, 
delighted  with  the  sprightly  companionship  of  her  niece,  and 
rendered  doubly  dependent  by  the  absence  of  her  husband. 
Rodney  Hampton  was  this  man's  most  confidential  clerk,  and 
necessarily  a  good  deal  at  his  house — oftener  still  from  choice, 
after  the  arrival  of  the  romping  niece.  She  was  speedily 
known  to  half  the  inhabitants  of  the  town,  and  a  universal 
favorite,  as  she  was  at  home. 

Is  it  any  wonder  if  an  impulsive,  careless  girl,  as  was  Sarah, 
should  never  have  stopped  to  inquire  who  Rodney  was,  nor 
whence  he  came,  and  how,  more  and  more,  the  interest 
awakened  by  her  first  introduction  to  him  was  settling  down 
into  her  heart  ?  or  if  it  be  a  wonder,  why  it  must  remain  so  ? 
for  certain  it  is  she  did  not  inquire  till  she  awoke  one  day  to 
find  that  only  within  the  circle  of  his  influence  was  there  any 
world  for  her.  They  rode  together  into  the  country,  and  came 
home  under  the  starlight  and  by  the  light  of  their  own  imagin- 
ations ;  they  walked  together  in  the  suburbs  of  the  town,  and 
found  interest  in  every  ragged  urchin  or  thorny  shrub  in  their 
path  ;  they  sat  together  in  Aunt  Ruth's  pretty  parlor  and 
smiled  unutterable  things. 

By  degrees  the  ruder  portion  of  Sarah's  rusticity  became 
toned  down,  and  her  extravagant  taste  subdued  itself  to  a  more 
artistic  fashion,  so  that  when  she  had  been  with  Aunt  Ruth  six 
months  she  was  regarded  as  quite  the  belle  of  the  little  city  of 
which  she  was  an  inhabitant. 

And  as  the  fall  came  on,  not  an  evening  passed  that  did  not 
find  Rodney  conversing  with  his  gay-hearted  favorite  in  tones 


138  SARAH   MOEEIS. 

that  insinuated  more  than  they  said,  and  lingering  and  linger- 
ing in  such  fond  way  as  certainly  contradicted  indifference. 
And  to  Sarah's  credulous  belief  indifference  was  not  only  con- 
tradicted, but  admiration,  respect,  love — all  proclaimed  with 
more  than  trumpet-tongued  assurance. 

He  was  a  fine  singer,  and  many  a  romantic  song  made 
sweet  promises  to  her  heart,  and  many  a  meaning  glance 
confirmed  the  promises. 

Every  pretty  cottage  in  the  neighborhood  had,  at  one  time 
and  another,  been  selected  as  the  future  home  of  our  lovers, 
when  there  came  one  day  to  Sarah  a  letter,  written  in  the 
trembling  and  unpracticed  hand  of  the  almost  forgotten  Elijah. 

It  told  her  how  much  her  mother  wished  her  to  come  home  ; 
how  much,  indeed,  she  needed  her,  and  enlarged  pathetically 
on  the  miserable  way  the  good  woman  was  wearing  off  her 
feet  ;  it  told,  too,  how  much  everybody  wanted  to  see  her,  and 
said  how  dreary  and  desolate  the  neighborhood  was  without 
her  ;  it  even  hinted  that  Mr.  Hilton  was  pining  away,  and  for 
sake  of  pity  of  him,  if  for  nothing  else,  she  must  come. 

"  The  old  house  here  seems  lonesome  as  the  barn,"  urged 
Elijah,  but  he  did  not  say  whether  it  were  thus  lonesome  to 
him,  or  to  whom.  "Your  beautiful  grey,"  he  concluded,  "is 
looking  handsome,  and  is  impatient  to  bear  you  about  as  he  used 
to  do.  Oh,  Miss  Sarah,  for  everybody's  sake  you  must  come  !" 

The  funds  for  defraying  the  expenditure  of  the  homeward 
journey  were  inclosed,  and  when  Sarah  had  finished  reading 
she  was  more  sorrowful  than  she  had  been  for  a  long  while. 

The  door  of  an  old  and  less  enchanting  world  was  again 
open,  and  she  saw  that  she  must  leave  her  soft  dreams  for 
hard  realities,  for  she  had  been  used  to  hard  work  and  hard 


SARAH   MORRIS.  139 

fare  at  home,  for  the  most  part,  and  if  she  felt  less  tenderness 
than  a  child  should  feel  for  its  parents,  why,  they  had  felt  less 
for  her  than  parents  should  feel  for  their  child. 

lu  reference  to  again  meeting  Elijah,  she  could  not  herself 
understand  the  nature  of  her  feelings — there  was  so  much  of 
pity  and  tenderness,  so  much  of  protection  on  her  part,  and  of 
servitude  on  his,  and,  above  all,  so  much  love  for  Rodney,  it  is 
no  wonder  Sarah  could  only  cry,  and  wish  she  had  never  gone 
away  from  home. 

The  letter  was  lying  open  in  her  lap,  and  the  tears  dropping 
silently  down  her  cheeks,  red  as  roses  still,  when  Rodney  joined 
her,  and  with  a  tenderness  that  seemed  real,  inquired  the 
nature  of  her  sorrow. 

She  would  have  spoken,  but  grief  choked  her  voice,  and  she 
could  only  indicate  the  letter. 

"  From  some  lover  ?"  asked  Rodney,  half  angrily  and  half 
reproachfully.  Sarah  shook  her  head,  and  he  proceeded  to 
read  it,  saying,  "  Then  of  course  you  have  no  secrets  from  me  ?" 
thus  implying  a  right  he  had  never  asked  for. 

As  he  read  he  laughed  many  times  in  a  sneering  fashion  that 
Sarah  did  not  like,  and  would  have  resented  when  her  heart  was 
less  softened  than  now,  indicating,  as  he  laughed,  the  numerous 
blunders  in  the  manuscript  before  him. 

"  Every  one  has  not  had  your  advantages,  remember," 
pleaded  Sarah  ;  for  Rodney  was  a  ready,  correct,  and  graceful 
writer. 

"  I  knew  this  fellow  was  your  lover,"  replied  the  dissatisfied 
young  man,  and  he  mockingly  placed  the  letter  upon  the  heart 
of  the  weeping  girl. 

"  And  what  if  he  were  my  lover  ?"  said  Sarah,  with  some- 


140  SAKAH    MORRIS. 

thing  of  her  old  ironical  manner,  smiling  as  she  dried  her 
eyes. 

"  Nothing,  nothing,"  replied  Rodney,  dropping  the  hand  he 
had  been  demurely  coquetting  with,  and  speaking  in  the  tone 
of  one  vitally  injured.  "But,"  he  added,  "you  must  have 
known,  Sarah,  you  must  have  seen,  you  must  have  felt  [here 
he  pressed  his  hand  against  his  heart,  as  though,  if  possible,  to 
prevent  its  breaking  then  and  there],  that  you  were  cherishing 
hopes  never,  never  to  be  realized.  0  Sarah  !  may  heaven 
deal  gently  with  your  conscience,  and  never  suffer  it  to  reproach 
you,  as  mine  would  me  under  a  similar  accusation."  He  ceased 
speaking,  and  hiding  his  face  in  his  hands,  seemed  to  be  weep- 
ing. Sarah  put  her  arms  about  his  neck,  for  she  loved  him,  and 
love  is  not  ashamed  of  such  demonstrations,  and  said  artfully : 

"  And  if  Elijah  were  not  my  lover,  dear  Rodney,  why,  what 
then  1" 

"  Can  you  wrong  me  so  cruelly  as  to  ask  ?"  spoke  Rodney, 
still  hiding  his  face  from  her.  "  You  know  that  to  make  you 
my  wife  was  a  hope  dearer  than  life  to  me."  And  he  went  on 
with  a  pitiful  deceit  men  are  fond  of  practising  upon  credulous 
women,  to  speak  of  a  predisposition  to  early  death  in  his 
family,  and  to  say  it  mattered  not ;  nobody  would  grieve  for 
him,  and  least  of  all,  Sarah. 

Sarah  affirmed  that  his  death  would  break. her  heart,  and 
especially  if  she  knew  that  by  a  single  moment  she  had  hastened 
it,  and  she  gave  him  abundant  proof  of  what  her  grief  would 
be,  in  the  passionate  outburst  of  tears  which  even  the  sugges- 
tion of  so  melancholy  an  event  produced. 

"  No  tears  for  me,"  said  Rodney,  "  I  am  not  worth  them. 
You  are  so  good,  so  pure — I  would  not  have  been  worthy  of 


SAEAH   MORBIS.  141 

you,  dear  Sarah,  and  it  is  better  as  it  is.  I  must  try  to  forget 
you — try  to  live  on ;  and  you — you  will  soon  forget  me  with 
him." 

He  hid  his  face  in  his  hands  again,  as  if  to  hide  from  himself 
the  terrible  truth  ;  for  it  is  astonishing  to  what  sacrifices  of 
truth  men  will  resort  in  order  to  appear  true. 

Blinded  by  her  love,  and  bewildered  by  his  pathetic  appeals, 
Sarah  told  him  in  the  honesty  of  her  full  soul,  that  Elijah  was 
not  her  lover,  or  if  he  were,  that  she  did  not  love  him  in  turn  ; 
that  only  himself  was  dear  to  her,  and  that  if  it  were  true  he 
loved  her  as  he  said,  there  was  nothing  between  them  and 
happiness. 

Rodney  kissed  her  cheek,  and  said  he  was  blessed  ;  but  the 
voice  seemed  devoid  of  meaning,  and  the  kiss  more  like  the 
farewell  to  a  dead  friend  then  the  betrothing  to  a  living  love. 

When  they  parted  it  was  under  a  positive  engagement  of 
marriage — even  the  day  was  arranged  that  he  was  to  come  to 
her  father's  house  and  "  bear  her  away,  his  bride." 

Many  times  he  sought  to  drag  poor  Elijah  forward,  and  to 
make  him  an  insurmountable  obstacle  in  the  way  of  the  fulfill- 
ment of  his  dearest  hope,  as  he  called  his  engagement ;  but 
Sarah  saw  in  this  the  jealousy,  and  not  the  weariness  of  love  ; 
and  would  not  suffer  the  happiness  of  her  life,  and  of  her  dear 
Rodney's  life,  to  be  thus  idly  thwarted.  So  they  parted  be- 
trothed lovers.  Aunt  Ruth  was  better,  and  with  the  prospect 
of  so  soon  again  seeing  her  niece,  smiled  her  benediction,  and 
Sarah  went  away  ;  the  bloom  in  her  cheek  softened  to  the 
tenderest  glow,  and  the  flashing  of  her  dark  eyes  subdued  to 
the  gentlest  radiation. 

Rumor  runs  faster  than  the  wind,   and  the  report  that 


142  SAEAH   MORRIS. 

Sarah  was   coming   home   to  get  married  preceded  her,  and 
curiosity  was  on  tiptoe  to  know  who  the  intended  husband  was. 

She  made  no  denial  of  her  engagement  when  her  young 
friends  came  round  her  with  playful  banter  and  laughing  con- 
gratulations. The  general  impression  prevailed,  that  the  rich 
miller  was  the  happy  man  ;  and  that  the  engagement  was  of 
old  standing — an  impression  that  Sarah  did  not  discourage. 
There  was  one  who  did  not  come  to  offer  congratulations,  to 
entreat  pity,  or  to  breathe  reproach — and  this  was  Elijah 
Burbank.  With  the  intelligence  that  Sarah  was  coming  home 
only  to  get  married,  he  had  gone,  no  one  knew  why  or 
whither.  Sarah's  mother  could  divine  no  motive  for  his  sudden 
resolution.  All  at  once,  she  said  he  had  seemed  to  droop  like  a 
motherless  kitten,  and  scold  hard  as  she  would,  she  could  get . 
no  spunk  into  him.  It  seemed,  she  said,  as  though  he  had  no 
interest  in  any  thing  but  Sarah's  horse  and  Sarah's  garden, 
and  that  by  the  hour  he  would  talk  with  the  dumb  critter,  and 
the  flowers,  as  if  they  had  been  sensible  beings — that  his  last 
visit  was  to  the  garden,  and  that  he  had  gone  away  with  a 
rose  from  Sarah's  favorite  tree  in  his  hand. 

Tears  came  to  the  eyes  of  the  young  girl  when  she  heard 
this  ;  but  they  were  speedily  dried  in  the  sunny  happiness  that 
awaited  her,  for  when  we  are  very  happy  it  is  hard  to  believe 
there  is  any  great  misery  in  the  world. 

And  the  wedding-day  came  near,  and  the  wedding-people 
were  all  invited  ;  but  who  the  bridegroom  was,  was  still  a 
secret.  The  miller  was  observed  to  be  repairing  his  old  house 
about  this  time,  and  the  fact  gave  credence  to  the  rumor  that 
he  was  to  carry  off  the  prize. 

How  proud  and  happy  Sarah  was  as  she  half  admitted  the 


SARAH   MORRIS.  143 

correctness  of  the  suspicion,  in  the  thought  of  the  brilliant 
undeceiving  that  awaited  !  What  a  triumph  it  would  be  to 
have  her  friends  look  up  expecting  to  see  the  miller,  and 
behold  Rodney — the  handsome,  accomplished,  and  elegant 
Eodney  ! 

And  the  wedding-dress  was  made  ;  and  the  wedding-veil  was 
ready  ;  and  the  wedding-heart  was  beating  with  joyous  expec- 
tations, when  there  lacked  three  days  of  the  marriage-day.  It 
was  an  evening  of  the  late  November  that  Sarah  sat  among 
her  myrtle  pots  on  the  portico  watching  the  gloomy  gathering 
of  the  clouds,  and  the  last  yellow  leaves  as  they  fluttered  on  the 
almost  bare  branches,  and  dropped  now  and  then  on  her  head 
or  at  her  feet.  It  would  not  rain — she  was  quite  sure  it  would 
not  rain.  She  thought  the  clouds  were  breaking  and  drifting 
away,  though  auy  one  else  would  have  seen  them  closing  more 
darkly  and  darkly,  and  any  one  but  she  would  have  heard  in 
the  sound  of  the  wind  the  prophecy  of  the  long  November  storm. 

She  wore  a  dress  of  red  and  black  stripes,  and  a  little  gay 
shawl  coquettishly  twisted  about  her  neck,  some  bright  scarlet 
flowers  among  her  black  hair,  for  Rodney  had  oftentimes  ad- 
mired the  contrast  of  scarlet  blossoms  in  her  dark  hair,  and  it 
was  for  him  she  was  watching,  as  her  quick  vision  swept  the 
long  distance  again  and  again. 

At  length,  as  the  last  daylight  lost  itself  in  shadow,  her 
heart  beat  so  quick  and  so  loud  as  almost  to  choke  her.  She 
had  heard  hoof-strokes  in  the  distance,  and  who  should  be  com- 
ing but  Rodney  ! 

Nearer  they  came  and  nearer.  She  could  see  the  horseman 
more  and  more  plainly — fear  completed  what  hope  began,  and 
she  sank  down  almost  fainting. 


144  SARAH   MORRIS. 

The  miller — for  it  was  he — attributed  her  emotion  to  the 
delight  she  felt  in  seeing  him  ;  and  his  spirits  rose,  and  his  ten- 
der attentions  and  soft  insinuations  were  doubled. 

Every  moment  Sarah  hoped  Rodney  would  come  and  rid  her 
of  his  disagreeable  presence  ;  but  he  came  not. 

Across  the  field,  half  a  mile  away,  lights  were  seen  and 
voices  heard.  They  were  near  the  road-side,  and  as  Sarah's 
imagination  linked  everything  with  Rodney,  she  proposed 
going  to  see  what  was  doing,  for  she  feared  that  some  accident 
might  have  happened  to  him — he  might  be  dying  perhaps 
within  sight  of  her. 

Silently  she  went  along,  leaving  the  breathless  miller  tugging 
after  as  he  could,  till  she  reached  a  little  knoll  that  overlooked 
what  was  going  forward.  A  glance  convinced  her  that  Rodney 
was  not  there  ;  and  in  the  reaction  of  mind  she  experienced, 
she  laughed  joyously,  and  running  back  to  meet  the  miller, 
told  him  in  a  lively  tone  what  she  had  seen. 

The  lights  were  the  fires  of  a  camp  made  for  a  night's  rest 
by  some  people  who  were  moving  from  one  part  of  the  country 
to  another.  As  they  descended  the  slope  together,  they  could 
see  two  women  preparing  supper,  by  a  fire  of  sticks  and  logs, 
while  one  man  was  busy  chopping  wood,  and  another  with 
some  children  lay  on  the  slope  in  the  light  of  the  blazing  fire 
Beneath  a  low  oak  tree,  yet  full  of  dry  rustling  leaves,  a  rude 
tent  was  spread,  within  which  voices  of  women  in  low  and 
earnest  conference  were  heard. 

"  Seeing  your  lights,"  said  the  miller,  addressing  the  man  at 
the  fire,  "  we  crossed  the  field  from  our  home,  which  is  just 
over  the  hill,  in  the  hope  that  we  might  be  able  to  serve  you  ; 


SARAH   MORRIS.  145 

this  is  my  good  lady  who  is  with  me,  and  indeed  it  was  her 
kindly  heart  that  drew  us  this  way." 

Sarah  smiled  her  acquiescence  in  what  the  miller  said,  and 
the  delight  he  felt  in  being  for  half  an  hour  believed  to  be  her 
husband,  even  by  a  few  strangers  whom  he  might  never  meet 
again,  manifested  itself  in  a  thousand  exuberant  antics.  He 
quite  made  himself  master  of  their  little  camp,  and  pressed 
their  own  hospitalities  upon  them  with  a  generous  kindness 
that  was  amusing  to  witness. 

Meantime  the  women  and  children  hastened  to  do  reverence  to 
Sarah  by  offering  her  a  mat  to  sit  upon,  and  insisting  that  she 
should  remain  and  partake  of  their  fare.  They  seemed  to  be 
poor  people,  scantily  enongh  provided  with  necessaries,  to  say 
nothing  of  comforts.  The  children  were  barefoot,  and  most 
untidily  dressed  and  combed,  but  they  seemed  healthful,  and 
were  noisily  frolicsome.  The  women  who  were  preparing  sup- 
per looked  pale,  and  seemed  discouraged,  but  patiently  endur- 
ing. What  they  were  going  to  they  knew  not  -,  but  they  had 
come  from  poverty  and  suffering,  and  they  were  willing  to  go 
forward  even  faintly  hoping  for  something  better.  Recogniz- 
ing instinctively,  perhaps,  the  presence  of  strangers,  a  gossiping 
old  crone  emerged  from  the  tent,  and  pulling  Sarah  by  the 
sleeve,  began  to  address  her  in  whispers.  She  appeared  to  be 
the  mother  of  part  of  the  campers,  and  affected  or  had  mater- 
nal feelings  for  all. 

"  You  see,"  she  said,  "  we  would  get  along  well  enough,  my 
sons  and  daughters  and  me,  though  I  am  ninety,  but  for  one 
we  have  in  there — she  don't  belong  to  us,  though — she  is  sick, 
and  I'm  afraid  she  will  never  live  to  get  to  him,  though  if  reso- 
lution could  keep  a  body  up,  it  will  keep  her  up,  for  I  never 


146  SAKAH   MOBIUS. 

saw  so  much  soul,  as  you  may  say,  in  one  poor  little  body. 
Her  baby  was  born  after  we  were  on  the  road,  and  that  de- 
layed us  a  week  a'most  ;  but  it  was  her,  and  not  ourselves,  that 
we  cared  most  about :  poor  young  woman,  maybe  it  will 
brighten  her  up  like  to  see  your  face — it  looks  cheery  and 
good  :  suppose  you  just  step  inside  and  see  the  baby,  and  en- 
courage her  a  little  ;"  and  as  she  spoke  she  took  Sarah  by  the 
hand  and  led  her  into  the  tent,  while  the  wistful  eyes  of  the 
miller  followed  her. 

It  was  a  pitiful  picture  that  presented  itself :  on  a  rude  bed 
of  straw  that  was  spread  on  the  ground,  and  with  the  light  of 
a  tallow  candle  falling  upon  her  face,  lay  a  young  and  beauti- 
ful woman.  One  hand  lay  on  the  quilt  of  patch-work  that 
covered  her  ;  and  Sarah  could  not  but  remark  the  extreme 
delicacy  and  smallness  of  it,  while  the  other  rested  on  the  head 
of  her  baby.  Her  voice  was  low  and  sweet ;  but  when  she 
spoke  of  the  baby's  father,  whom  she  said  she  was  soon  to  join, 
it  grew  strong  and  full  of  enthusiasm  and  courage.  By  extreme 
necessity,  she  said,  and  no  fault  of  his,  she  had  become  separ- 
ated from  him  ;  and  when  the  old  woman  alluded  to  the  suf- 
fering she  had  endured,  she  said,  with  an  entreating  earnestness 
again  and  again,  that  it  was  not  the  fault  of  the  baby's  father. 

She  seemed  so  well-bred,  and  so  continually  ignored  any 
endurance  on  her  part,  that  poor  Sarah,  whose  sympathies  were 
all  interested,  was  at  a  loss  how  to  behave,  or  in  what  way  to 
offer  such  charities  as  she  felt  to  be  required. 

She  was  not  without  a  woman's  tact,  however,  and  by  prais- 
ing the  baby  won  her  way  to  the  heart  of  the  mother — for 
the  child  she  would  accept  some  milk — nothitfg  for  herself. 
She  was  comfortably,  nay  more  than  comfortably  provided. 


SABAH   MOEEIS.  147 

She  held  up  the  child  for  Sarah  to  kiss  as  she  was  about 
going  away,  and  as  she  did  so  her  own  enthusiasm  was  awak- 
ened anew — the  eyes,  the  hands,  the  hair,  were  all  so  like  the 
father  of  the  dear  baby — "  If  you  could  only  see  him,"  she 
exclaimed,  "  I  am  sure  you  would  not  wonder  that  I  love 
him  !" 

"  Show  the  young  lady  his  picture,  won't  you  ?"  interposed 
the  old  woman. 

"  Oh,  she  would  not  care  to  see  it,"  replied  the  loving  wife  ; 
and  she  added,  pressing  the  hand  of  Sarah,  "pray,  pardon  me 
for  talking  of  him  so  much  ;  but  then  he  has  never  seen  the 
baby,  nor  me  for  so  long — dear  Rodney,  how  much  it  must 
have  grieved  him  1" 

Sarah's  eyes  fixed  themselves  with  a  new  and  terrible  inter- 
est on  the  baby,  as  it  lay  asleep  in  its  smiling  innocence  and 
beauty — the  blood  settled  back  to  her  heart — a  faintness  came 
over  her  and  she  sunk  to  the  ground. 

The  old  woman  dashed  a  cup  of  water  in  her  face,  and  she 
recovered  enough  to  say  it  was  nothing  ;  she  was  used  to  faint" 
ing  fits,  and  would  presently  be  quite  well. 

"  Show  the  picture,  it  will  revive  her  like,"  insisted  the  old 
nurse. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  gasped  Sarah,  "  I  must  see  the  picture  !" 

The  young  mother  took  it  from  her  bosom,  with  some  apol- 
ogy for  its  not  looking  so  well  as  the  original,  and  presented  it, 
to  complete,  with  its  fair  familiar  smile,  the  undoing  of  a  too 
trustful  heart.  Her  eyes  in  one  long  stony  stare  fixed  them- 
selves upon  it,  as  though  she  would  fain  look  away  the  horrid 
lie,  that  in  some  fearful  way  had  obscured  the*  truth  of  her  be- 
trothed. Catching  at  the  shadow  of  a  hope,  she  whispered  to 


148  SAKAH    MOKRIS. 

herself,  "  I  see,  I  see  how  it  is,  it  is  the  brother  of  my  Rod- 
ney." 

"  Can  there  be  another  in  the  world,"  cried  the  sick  lady, 
"  who  resembles  Rodney  Hampton  ?  Where  did  you  meet  the 

person  you  speak  of  ?  not  surely  in ?"  She  named  the 

place  where  Sarah  had  met  Rodney — where  she  had  loved  him, 
and  where  she  had  promised  to  be  his  wife. 

"  No,  not  there — not  there,"  replied  Sarah  ;  "  the  person  I 
know,  you  have  never  seen  ;"  and  pressing  a  kiss  on  the  white 
hand  of  the  startled  invalid,  she  went  away  with  an  unsteady 
and  hurried  step. 

Heavily  she  leaned  on  the  arm  of  the  miller  as  she  slowly  re- 
turned homeward.  "  I  suppose  those  people  took  you  for  my 
wife,"  he  said,  laughing  foolishly. 

"  And  what  if  they  did  ?"  replied  Sarah. 

"  Nothing,"  answered  the  miller,  "  only  I  wish  it  were  true." 

Sarah  walked  on  in  silence  ;  but  more  and  more  firmly  till 
she  reached  the  homestead-door,  and  then  she  said  with  a 
calmness  that  was  fearful  to  hear,  "  There  is  a  rumor  abroad 
that  I  am  to  be  married  the  day  after  to-morrow — it  was  a 
Billy  jest  of  mine — if  you  please  you  may  make  it  truth." 

When  she  had  received  the  miller's  affirmative  response,  she 
coldly  silenced  his  tender  demonstrations,  and  forbidding  him 
to  see  her  again  till  the  hour  appointed  to  unite  their  fates, 
she  retired  to  her  chamber,  and  gave  herself  up  to  the  awfullest 
of  all  tortures — the  rack  of  unrequited  love. 

A.nd  the  wedding  day  came,  and  the  guests  stood  silent  and 
wondering  when  they  saw  the  bride,  for  her  eyes  had  lost  their 
lustre,  and  her  cheek  was  hueless  as  death  ;  but  in  due  form 
she  was  made  the  wife  of  Mr.  Hilton,  and  in  due  time  she  accom- 


SAEAH   MORRIS.  149 

panied  him  to  the  gloomy  old  stone  house.  From  her  marriage- 
day  she  was  never  seen  abroad,  and  her  gay  laughter  was  never 
heard  to  ring  out  anywhere  ;  her  bright  saddle  was  hung  up 
in  the  dusty  garret,  and  her  bright  cheeks  faded  and  grew  thin. 
The  gallant  grey  was  tied  to  the  mill-wheel,  and  trod  his  sober 
round  ;  and  Sarah  trod  her  sober  round,  doing  her  duty,  but 
scolding  the  miller  as  loudly  and  sharply  as  her  mother  had 
scolded  Job.  In  the  main,  however,  she  was  a  good  wife,  and 
if  she  scolded  the  miller,  so  the  neighbors  said,  it  was  no  more 
than  he  deserved,  for  he  was  a  hard,  selfish,  and  tyrannical 
master. 

Many  years  they  plodded  on  together  ;  but  at  length  the 
miller  was  gathered  to  his  fathers  ;  and  other  years  Sarah  lived 
on  alone,  wearing  a  mourning  dress,  and  caring  little  to  conceal 
the  silver  streaks  that  were  beginning  to  show  above  her  tem- 
ples. One  winter  night  as  she  sat  by  the  blazing  fire,  the 
flinty  snow  rattling  against  the  pane,  there  was  a  loud  knock- 
ing at  the  door,  and  the  next  moment  a  strange  gentleman  was 
borne  in,  who  had  been  thrown  from  his  carriage  at  her  gate, 
and  considerably  hurt.  He  was  carried  immediately  to  bed, 
and  the  village  doctor  called,  who  pronounced  his  patient 
badly  bruised,  but  in  no  wise  seriously  injured.  He  was  par- 
tially unconscious  at  first,  but  after  his  face  for  a  few  minutes 
had  been  bathed,  he  recovered  sufficiently  to  thank  his  hostess, 
and  to  inquire  whether  his  luggage  were  safe — one  box  he  was 
particularly  solicitous  about,  and  could  not  rest  till  Sarah  had 
brought  it  to  his  bedside.  On  seeing  it  he  smiled,  and  shortly 
afterwards  fell  asleep.  That  smile  seemed  to  join  itself  to  some 
old  memory,  but  Sarah  could  not  tell  what  ;  it  might  be  with 
Rodney  perhaps,  but  if  it  were,  it  stirred  no  troubled  thought:. 


150  SARAH    MORRIS. 

The  stranger  was  certainly  handsome,  and  from  his  dress  and 
belongings  was  evidently  of  no  mean  position  in  the  world — a 
man  of  leisure  and  money,  Sarah  thought,  travelling  probably 
for  his  health,  and  while  she  mused  and  turned  her  eyes  from 
the  refined  and  expressive  face  to  the  little  white  hand  that 
seemed  reaching  towards  her,  wondering  who  her  guest  was  and 
when  she  should  find  out  all  about  him,  the  clock  struck 
twelve,  more  loudly  than  it  had  ever  struck  till  then,  it  seemed 
to  Sarah,  and  the  sleeping  gentleman  unclosed  his  eyes,  and 
fixed  them  earnestly  and  tenderly  upon  the  watcher  by  his 
side,  and  as  he  gazed  his  pale  cheek  blushed,  and  his  mouth 
lost  the  firm  expression  of  manhood,  and  took  the  sweet  sensi- 
tive look  of  the  loving  boy. 

"  Can  I  do  anything  for  you  ?"  asked  Sarah,  not  well  know- 
ing what  else  to  say. 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  stranger,  "  I  fear  a  long  cherished  trea- 
sure is  lost  from  this  box.  Will  you  please  remove  the  lid  that 
I  may  see  ?" 

Sarah  slipped  the  covering  aside,  and  for  a  moment  stood 
paralyzed,  and  then,  as  her  eyes  fell  inquiringly  upon  the 
stranger,  the  blush  of  twenty  years  again  colored  her  cheek. 

The  box  contained  a  coarsely-braided  rye-straw  hat,  trimmed 
with  a  faded  blue  ribbon  1 

Elijah  !  Sarah  !  was  all  they  could  say  in  the  first  joyous 
shock  of  surprise.  What  more  they  said  ultimately,  let  us  not 
care  to  inquire — enough  that  the  day  broke  for  them  at  mid- 
night, and  there  was  never  any  more  darkness  in  all  their 
lives. 


THE 


HOUSE  WITH  TWO  FRONT  DOORS. 


TWENTY-FIVE  years  ago  there  stood  in  a  straggling  village  on 
the  banks  of  the  Ohio,  an  old  house,  with  two  doors,  and  a 
good  many  irregular  windows  in  the  front.  Two  clumsy  chim- 
neys of  stone  showed  squattily  above  the  steep  red  gables — the 
one  for  architectural  effect,  simply,  the  other  the  extension  of  a 
veritable  flue  ;  and  from  this  last,  a  cloud  of  black  smoke 
worked  itself  out,  and  after  a  little  vain  effort  to  keep  itself  up, 
sagged  towards  the  ground,  for  the  air  was  heavy — the  orange 
light  rapidly  blackening  against  the  yellow  moss  on  the  tops  of 
the  western  hills,  and  the  evening  coming  in  with  the  promise 
of  a  wet  night. 

The  village  was  not  at  all  picturesque  ;  a  great  hill  that 
extended  as  far  as  the  eye  could  see,  and  the  summit  of  which 
seemed  almost  to  touch  the  sky,  formed  its  background,  and 
completely  shut  out  the  view  in  that  direction.  It  was  not  one 
of  those  poetic  hills  that  are  beautified  with  pasture-fields,  shady 
trees,  flowery  thickets — on  the  contrary,  its  village-side  was 
bare  of  vegetation,  except,  indeed,  a  scanty  growth  of  stunted 
oaks,  together  with  some  thistles,  and  dwarf  blackberry  vines, 
which,  in  some  sort,  relieved  its  monotony  of  baked  clay, 

151 


152  THE   HOUSE   WITH   TWO   FRONT  DOORS. 

(•nicked  by  the  sunshine,  and  washed  into  deep  gullies  by  the 
rain. 

The  village  streets  were  still  less  attractive — unpaved  for  the 
most  part — full  of  ruts,  where  refuse  soaked  and  rotted,  and 
obstructed  at  all  points  with  idle  carts,  coopers'  stuff,  heaps  of 
shavings  and  the  like.  They  had  their  share,  too,  of  stray  cows 
and  quarrelsome  dogs,  and  were  provided  with  mud-holes,  at 
convenient  distances,  where  swine,  with  patches  of  bristles 
scalded  off  by  the  ill-natured  housewives,  took  such  ease  as  their 
nature  loveth,  and  by  grunting  and  squealing  further  provoked 
the  wrath  of  their  oppressors,  for  the  hearts  of  women  are  not 
always  so  gentle  as  poets  say,  and  if  the  truth  be  fairly  spoken, 
are,  I  am  afraid,  no  less  accessible  to  induration  than  the  faces 
with  which  hard  fortune  plays  such  terrible  havoc.  But  not- 
withstanding the  facts  recorded,  the  town  was  not  without  pre- 
tensions which  no  transient  abider  therein  could  gainsay  with- 
out disadvantage. 

The  clergyman's  house,  with  its  close-shut  windows,  carved 
portico,  and  grey  garden  wall,  set  round  with  austere  box — its 
gravelled  walk,  along  which  tall  sunflowers  baked  their  great 
cakes  brown,  together  with  the  red  brick  meeting-house, 
with  its  solemn  burial-ground,  where  a  thousand  low  head- 
stones shrugged  their  shoulders  beneath  the  two  or  three  grand 
monuments,  were  perhaps,  the  distinguishing  ornaments  of  the 
place — the  centre  about  which  clustered  the  more  exclu- 
sive piety — the  evangelical  pride,  so  to  speak,  of  the  village 
folks. 

The  market-house,  which  was,  in  point  of  fact,  a  dismantled 
canal  boat  set  upon  dry  land,  was  also  an  object,  not  only  of 
general  interest,  but  one  which  kindled  local  admiration  almost 


THE   HOUSE   WITH   TWO   FEOXT  DOORS.  153 

to  enthusiasm.  Eeal  estate  in  this  vicinity  was  estimated  to 
have  doubled  its  value  in  consequence  of  this  "  improvement," 
and  two  or  three  owners  of  lots  thereabouts  retired  from 
business,  and  were  thereafter  clothed  and  fed,  simply  by  virtue 
of  the  market-house.  No  one  will  be  disposed  to  doubt  this 
statement  who  has  observed  what  a  number  of  idlers  a  single 
grocery  store  or  turnpike-gate  will  maintain.  I  once  knew  two 
able-bodied  men  to  support  themselves  and  their  families  on  the 
merits  of  a  cross-road — but  this,  perhaps,  was  an  extreme 
case. 

Then  there  was  the  squire's  office,  a  diminutive  lean-to  of  the 
corner  dry-goods  store,  in  the  official  glory  of  which  all  ordinary 
considerations  of  right  and  morality  sunk  completely  out  of 
sight.  The  squire  wore  a  weed  on  his  white  hat  in  memory  of 
the  lamented  Mrs.  Bigsham,  and  this  drew  after  him  more  than 
a  third  part  of  the  feminine  sympathy  of  the  town,  and  was  per- 
haps the  basis  of  his  popularity — every  unmarried  woman  felt 
as  if  that  black  band  was  an  electric  link  between  herself  and 
the  great  squire,  which  might  at  any  time  be  converted  to  a 
bond  of  perpetual  union. 

"  The  office,"  as  it  was  called,  was  the  habitual  resort  of  the 
big  academy  boys — decayed  pilots  of  river-boats,  doctors'  stu- 
dents, who  jested  about  "  subjects"  and  drew  teeth  for  half-price 
— and,  as  may  be  inferred,  the  convocations  of  these  learned 
disputants  were  not  a  little  promotive  of  exclusive  feeling  in  the 
neighborhood.  True,  the  legal  prestige  was  somewhat  marred 
by  the  fact  that  a  poor  shoemaker  plied  his  trade  in  the  rear  of 
the  magisterial  office,  but  aristocracy  did  all  it  could  in  self- 
defence  by  suspending  a  curtain  formed  of  a  mosquito-net  be- 
tween the  bench  of  the  obnoxious  workmen  and  the  arm-chair 

7* 


154  THE   HOUSE   WITH   TWO   FRONT  BOOKS. 

and  the  mottled  spittoon  of  the  squire.  Inadequate  as  the 
screen  would  seem,  it  required  not  even  that  to  separate  the 
young  shoemaker,  who  was  lame  and  melancholy,  from  the  rude 
and  boisterous  frequenters  of  the  official  department,  so  that  a 
more  impenetrable  stuff  was  not  in  the  least  necessary.  He  had 
been  in  the  village  a  year,  or  more,  and  nobody  knew  anything 
about  him  except  that  he  was  a  faithful  and  honest  worker,  and 
put  himself  in  nobody's  way,  for  he  moved  about  quietly  as  a 
ghost,  aud  with  as  little  interest  in  the  earth  apparently.  He 
was  known  to  the  old  woman  with  whom  he  boarded,  as  Peter 
Gilbraith,  and  to  the  other  towns  people,  who  knew  him  at  all, 
as  "Shoe  Pete" — but  whether  called  by  one  name  or  another  eli- 
cited from  him  no  indication  of  pleasure  or  displeasure.  Nature 
had  gifted  him  with  eyes  of  wonderful  beauty — hair  that  curled 
itself  all  the  more  gracefully  for  his  careless  management, 
and  a  smile  of  that  strangely  fascinating  sort,  that  seems  made 
up  of  mingled  scorn  and  sweetness  ;  but  accident  had  dishonored 
his  fair  proportions  by  curtailing  one  leg  of  its  rightful  dimen- 
sions, which  obliged  him  to  walk  with  a  stick,  and  gave  to  his 
shoulders  a  perpetual  stoop. 

Whether  it  were  poverty  or  lameness,  or  both,  that  made 
him  shrink  from  the  little  observation  he  excited,  or  whether 
misanthropy  were  a  part  of  his  nature,  nobody  knew,  and  very 
soon  nobody  cared — for  in  what  way  could  "  Shoe  Pete,"  they 
argued,  enhance  the  value  of  town-lots,  or  contribute  to  social 
pleasure  ?  And  true  it  is  that  his  great  sad  eyes  seemed  to 
rebuke  the  spirit  of  mirth,  and  his  smile  made  the  beholder  of 
it  feel  as  if  he  were  more  than  half  despised.  His  dress  was 
careless  (with  the  exception  of  the  high-heeled  shoe,  which  was 
neat  in  the  extreme)  not  slovenly,  however,  and  it  always  bore 


THE    HOUSE   WITH   TWO   FRONT   DOORS.  155 

evidence  of  refinement,  as  did  also  his  pale  face,  in  spite  of 
neglected  hair  and  beard. 

From  sunrise  till  sunset  his  hammer  was  never  still,  and 
sometimes  late  into  the  night,  even,  its  whack,  whack,  sounded 
upon  the  soft  leather,  so  that  it  is  not  strange  that  reports 
gradually  went  into  circulation,  that  Shoe  Pete  was  "  laying 
up  "  money  ;  nor  that  overtures  towards  his  acquaintance  began 
to  be  warmly  pressed.  He  remained  inaccessible,  however,  and 
was  observed  to  walk  with  less  stoop,  and  to  show  a  bright 
indignant  spot  on  either  cheek,  after  some  customer  had 
been  unusually  condescending  with  him. 

But  whether  the  season  was  a  busy  one  or  not,  the  young 
shoemaker  was  never  idle — his  candle  made  the  small  window 
above  his  work-bench  shine  till  midnight,  and  his  leather  apron 
was  in  requisition  late  and  early.  There  was  always  a  book  or 
a  newspaper  under  his  pillow,  in  the  morning,  his  landlady 
reported,  and  this  fact  was  accepted  by  her  as  presumptive 
evidence,  that  Peter  Gilbraith  was  a  great  scholar,  and  though 
it  may  seem  like  a  small  basis  on  which  to  found  a  reputation 
for  scholarship,  it  was  sufficient,  and  puzzling  questions  in  geo- 
graphy and  grammar  began  to  be  propounded  to  him  by  the 
young  villagers  when  they  came  to  have  their  feet  measured. 
Nevertheless,  the  sun  threw  his  last  rays  from  the  yellow  moss 
on  the  tops  of  the  western  hills  and  sunk  completely  out  of  sight 
on  the  evening  upon  which  our  story  opens,  and  the  shoemaker 
had  never  as  yet  received  the  slightest  recognition  from  the 
great  Squire  Bigshara.  Is  it  very  singular  if  he  started  and  let 
fall  his  hammer,  as  the  great  man  pulled  his  chair  about  so  that 
he  faced  the  mosquito-net  curtain,  and  said  with  easy  familarity, 
and  as  if  he  were  in  the  habit  of  addressing  him  every  day — 


156  THE   HOUSE   WITH   TWO   FRONT  DOORS. 

"  You  are  a  happy  dog,  Gilbraith — I  almost  wish  I  was  a  shoe- 
maker instead  of  the  public  functionary  I  am  ?" 

Gilbraith  smiled,  and  took  up  his  hammer. 

"  Let  me  see,"  continued  the  squire,  "  how  long  have  we 
been  acquainted  ?" 

"  I  have  worked  in  your  office  about  a  year,  sir." 

"  A  year  !  Zounds !  why  it  seems  jest  t'other  day  you  come  !" 
He  knew  the  time  very  well,  but  he  wanted  to  make  believe  that 
he  was  surprised  so  much  time  should  have  elasped  without  his 
having  cultivated  friendly  relations  with  his  excellent  neighbor. 

The  shoemaker  had  resumed  his  hammer  and  his  old  expres- 
sion of  sad  indifference. 

The  squire  went  on  :  "  Bless  my  soul  !  a  year !  I  wouldn't  a» 
believed  any  feller,  if  he'd  a  tole  me  that,  exceptin'  you,  your- 
self."  He  laid  special  stress  on  the  you,  as  if  he  held  the  young 
man's  veracity  in  high  esteem. 

The  shoemaker  smiled  again  at  the  implied  compliment,  but 
made  no  other  acknowledgment. 

The  squire  was  not  to  be  thwarted,  however — the  news  had 
come  to  his  ears  that  morning,  that  Shoe  Pete  had  actually 
purchased  a  lot  adjoining  the  market-house,  and  paid  a  hundred 
dollars  down,  for  the  same  !  so  he  gathered  up  his  feet  and  said 
— "  Look-a-here  now,  did  you  ever  see  any  man  make  a  boot  to 
fit  a  feller's  foot  like  that  ?" 

Gilbraith  clutched  his  hammer,  or  it  must  have  fallen  again 
— the  squire  had,  of  a  verity,  indicated  that  shoemakers  were 
men,  and  at  the  same  time  had  designated  himself  as  a  fellow  1 
He  was  too  proud  to  disparage  another  man's  work,  and  said 
something  to  the  effect  that  the  boots  seemed  to  have  done 
good  service. 


THE    HOUSE   TVITH    TWO    FRONT   DOORS.  157 

"  Well  sir,  I'll  tell  you,  sir,"  continued  the  squire,  bringing 
his  courtesy  to  a  climax,  "  I  want  for  you  to  make  me  a  pair  of 
tip-top  stogy  boots,  and  you  may  jes  put  your  own  price  onto 
'em,  too."  The  shoemaker  said  his  time  was  fully  engaged  for  a 
month  or  mare,  bat  that  he  would  attend  the  order  at  his 
earliest  convenience,  and  limping  forward  he  took  the  requisite 
measure  with  the  air  of  conferring,  rather  than  of  receiving  a 
favor. 

The  customary  loungers  dropped  in  one  after  another,  and 
each,  after  a  little  subdued  talk  with  the  squire — the  upshot  of 
which  was,  it  is  reasonable  to  infer,  the  prosperous  fortunes  of 
the  shoemaker — dexterously  dipped  his  conversation  so  as  to 
include  that  hitherto  ignoble  person.  But  his  replies  were  brief 
and  cold,  and  on  the  entrance  of  the  doctor's  student,  who  was 
usually  inflated  with  great  news — the  mosquito-net  resumed  its 
ancient  effectiveness,  and  Gilbraith,  the  transitory  man,  was 
resolved  once  more  into  Shoe  Pete. 

"  I  say,  Doc,  what  is  it  ?"  said  one  of  the  idlers,  smelling  the 
news  afar  off,  "  anything  new  about  that  ere  miss  what  was 
smuggled  into  the  two-door  house  t'other  night  ?" 

11 A  few  particulars  have  transpired,"  replied  the  student 
whom  they  called  Doc,  and  sliding  his  legs  apart,  he  thrust  his 
hands  deep  in  his  pockets  and  waited  to  be  questioned  fur- 
ther. 

"  What  miss  ?"— "  Which  two-door  house  ?"— "  Yon  one 
with  so  many  winders  ?"  were  a  few  of  the  twenty  questions 
asked  in  a  minute. 

"  He  means  the  house  with  the  two  front  doors  into  it,  and 
the  two  stone  chimbleys  onto  it — well  one  ov  them  chimbleys  is 
false,  and  maybe  there's  someten  else  'ats  falser  an  what  the 


158  THE   HOUSE   WITH   TWO    FRONT   BOOKS. 

chimbley  is,  about  that  ere  house — my  daughter  posted  me  up 
as  we  went  to  meetin'  last  night.'' 

Having  thus  brought  himself  to  a  level  in  point  of  import- 
ance, with  the  young  doctor,  the  squire  moved  his  hand  gra- 
ciously towards  him,  and  abdicated  in  his  favor.  He,  neverthe- 
less, was  slightly  offended — slid  his  legs  a  little  farther  apart, 
and  said  haughtily  "  that  he  didn't  know  that  he  could  enlight- 
en the  fellers  so  well  as  Squire  Bigsham."  This  obliged  the 
squire  to  make  a  humiliating  confession — to  say,  in  fact,  that 
he  "  knew  nothing  except  that  a  young  woman,  no  better  un 
what  she  ort  to  be,  appeerently,  had  been  lately  smuggled  into 
the  two-door  house,  and  that  the  feller  what  brought  her, 
had  shortly  afterwards  disappeared  between  two  lights,  leav- 
ing her  with  a  limited  amount  of  chink,  and  with  no  livin' 
soul  to  do  for  her,  except  the  greenest  kind  of  a  green- 
horn." 

The  shoemaker  had  lighted  his  tallow  candle,  and  the  squire 
his  big  lamp,  for  it  had  grown  quite  dark,  and  a  sudden  gust 
had  just  driven  a  dash  of  rain,  mixed  with  yellow  leaves,  against 
the  window.  The  door  burst  suddenly  open,  and  a  slender, 
freckled-faced  girl,  with  blue  eyes,  staring  wide,  and  red  hair 
flying  in  wild  disorder,  stood  fronting  the  wondering  group,  and 
with  many  catchings  of  breath  and  earnest  gesticulations,  made 
known  the  facts  that  she  lived  with  a  lady  "  that  was  took 
awful  sick — that  she  had  been  after  the  ould  dochther  and  the 
ould  dochther  wasn't  in  it,  and  she  was  afther  the  young 
dochther  to  come  with  her  to  the  lady,  who  lived  in  the  house 
beyant,  wid  the  two  doors — and  the  young  dochther  had  a  right 
to  go  wid  her  if  he  had  any  sowl." 

"  Hooraugh  1"  shouted  some  of  the  rude  fellows,  "  Go  wid 


THE   HOUSE   WITH   TWO    FRONT   DOOES.  159 

her,  Doc  !     Why  if  the  chap  ain't  a  blushin'  up  to  his  eyes — 
thought  he  had  more  pluck." 

And  one  of  the  most  disreputable  of  the  fellows  seized  his 
hat,  and  volunteered  to  accompany  the  frightened  girl,  asseve- 
rating that  he  himself  was  the  young  dochther. 

All  at  once  the  shoemaker  dashed  aside  the  frail  curtain, 
and  with  his  eyes  flashing  fire,  stood  in  the  midst  of  the  vul- 
gar crew,  almost  erect. 

"  Whoever  dares  to  lie  further  to  this  poor  child,  or  to 
insult  her  in  any  way,"  he  cried,  "  does  it  at  his  peril."  And 
leaving  the  dastards  dumb  with  astonishment,  he  motioned  the 
girl  to  follow  him,  and  without  another  word  went  out  into  the 
rain.  Ten  minutes  afterwards  the  old  woman  with  whom  he 
boarded,  wrapt  in  shawls  and  bearing  a  lantern  in  her  hand, 
was  feeling  her  way  through  the  wet  weeds  of  an  alley  towards 
the  old  house  with  the  two  front  doors. 

Presently,  through  the  windows  of  an  upper  room,  the  cur- 
tains of  which  were  carefully  drawn,  the  lights  were  seen  to 
shine,  and  shadows  to  pass,  as  if  there  was  hurrying  to  and 
fro  within,  but  the  most  watchful  gossips  could  discern  no- 
thing more.  Rumor  had  not  exaggerated  the  truth — that  night, 
when  the  storm  was  loudest  and  the  sky  blackest,  the  poor 
young  lady  who  had  been  a  few  days  before  cast  helpless  upon 
her  own  sad  fortune,  took  in  her  trembling  arms  the  unwel- 
come child  that  must  bear  witness  to  her  frailty,  through  time 
as  deathless  as  the  years  of  God 

The  little  window  by  which  the  shoemaker  worked  looked 
toward  the  house  with  the  two  front  doors,  and  often  as  he 
drew  out  his  long  threads,  his  eyes  wandered  that  way,  his 
own  isolated  condition  quickened  his  sympathies  for  the  young 


160  THE   HOUSE   WITH   TWO   FRONT  DOORS. 

mother,  at  whom  so  many  even  of  her  own  sex  were  ready  to 
cast  stones.  Sewing,  and  hammering,  and  pegging,  he 
dreamed  a  thousand  dreams  of  improbable  ways  in  which  he 
might  serve  her,  and  as  he  took  his  walk  to  his  evening  meals 
he  now  and  then  went  round  by  the  lonesome  house,  and  the 
oftener  he  took  that  road  the  shorter  it  appeared,  until  it 
seemed  to  him  at  last,  as  he  climbed  the  weedy  hill  and 
crossed  the  bare  common,  only  to  pass  that  house  and  hobble 
down  the  hill  again  that  he  was  taking  the  shortest  way 
home. 

So  far  from  losing  anything  in  the  estimation  of  the  young 
fellows  who  frequented  the  "  office,"  by  the  spirit  he  mani- 
fested in  defence  of  the  poor  girl  and  her  mistress,  he  was 
thereby  promoted  to  a  considerably  higher  degree  of  import- 
ance, and  it  soon  became  a  matter  of  no  unfrequent  occurrence 
for  them  to  address  directly  to  him  such  narratives  as  involved 
the  exhibition  of  what  they  esteemed  the  most  admirable 
manly  courage.  But  these  polite  attentions  gained  imper- 
ceptibly, if  they  gained  at  all,  upon  his  kindly  feeling,  and  a 
brief  word,  or  a  careless  nod,  was  usually  the  only  acknowledg- 
ment he  made. 

The  squire's  boots  were  a  complete  success,  and  served  to 
give  him  at  once  the  reputation  of  a  "  tip-top "  shoemaker  ; 
but  this  was  not  enough  to  lift  him  out  of  the  socket  of 
obscurity  in  which  he  was  sunken,  and  give  him  anything  like 
a  desirable  social  position.  But  what  was  termed  genteel 
patronage  began  to  be  extended  to  him  and  by  degrees  he 
became  known  as  little  Gilbraith,  and  to  be  called  Shoe  Pete 
only  behind  his  back. 

One  evening,  when  an  importunate  creditor  presented  him- 


THE   HOUSE   WITH   TWO   FBONT   DOOES.  161 

self  to  the  squire,  he  suddenly  turned  round  with  the  inquiry, 
"  Mr.  Gilbraith,  could  you  make  it  convenient  to  lend  me  five 
dollars  for  a  day  or  two  ?" 

"  Certainly,  sir,  with  the  greatest  pleasure,"  replied  the 
shoemaker,  with  a  heartiness  that  he  had  never  before  been 
known  to  use,  and  opening  a  well-filled  purse  he  presented  the 
note. 

As  the  squire  went  forward  to  receive  it,  the  mosquito-net 
curtain  intercepted  his  way  and  with  one  dash  of  his  great 
hand  he  swept  it  to  the  ground,  with  the  outraged  exclama- 
tion :  "  What  dingnation  fool  ever  put  this  thing  up  here  any- 
how !" 

As  may  be  supposed,  it  was  never  hung  up  again,  and  thus 
the  line  of  demarcation  between  the  "  office  "  and  the  "shop," 
became  somewhat  wavering. 

The  yellow  leaves  were  coming  down  in  the  fall  rain,  when 
the  shoemaker  invested  his  first  earnings  in  the  lot  adjoining 
the  market-house,  in  consequence  of  which  the  squire  acknow- 
ledged his  humanity,  and  when  the  Christmas  snow  hung  its 
white  garlands  on  the  box  along  the  clergyman's  grounds, 
heaped  higher  the  mounds  in  the  graveyard,  and  lay  all  unbro- 
ken before  the  house  with  the  two  front  doors,  a  bright  tin 
sign  bearing  the  name  of  Peter  Gilbraitb,  between  two  gilt 
boots,  was  nailed  on  the  office  door  in  close  proximity  to  the 
squire's  letter-box,  and  an  apprentice  had  been  taken  into  the 
shop,  and  with  this  assistance  the  young  shoemaker  found  it 
difficult  to  fill  his  orders. 

"  I  think  I  will  not  go  to  supper  to-night,"  he  said  to  his 
apprentice  one  evening,  as  the  last  sunlight  glittered  on  the 
snow  that  hung  over  the  eaves  of  the  house  with  two  doors. 


162        THE  HOUSE  WITH  TWO  FKOKT  DOORS. 

There  was  a  great  deal  of  work  to  be  finished  that  night,  and 
he  had  just  lifted  his  hand  to  draw  the  curtain  across  the  little 
window,  preparatory  to  lighting  the  candle  when  a  new  and 
joyous  light  came  suddenly  into  his  eyes,  and  leaving  the  cur- 
tain undrawn,  he  leaned  his  face  against  the  window  for  some 
minutes,  and  said,  at  length,  with  a  changed  tone  and  manner  : 
"  I  believe  I  will  go,  after  all." 

The  next  minute  the  apprentice  looked  out,  and  was  sur- 
prised to  see  him  going  up  the  hill  through  the  unbroken  snow, 
directly  away  from  the  house  of  the  old  woman  with  whom  he 
took  his  meals.  He  did  not  see  the  house  with  the  two  front 
doors — much  less  the  young  woman  at  the  window,  holding  a 
little  child  in  her  arms,  and  trying  to  make  it  see  the  moon 
come  up,  and  if  he  had  he  would  have  been  just  as  much  at  a 
loss  to  know  why  Peter  walked  that  way,  and  indeed  that 
young  man  might  have  found  it  difficult  to  explain  the  puzzle 
himself. 

"  I  never  saw  his  lameness  interfere  so  little  with  his 
walking,  as  it  seems  to  now,  in  spite  of  the  snow,"  mused 
the  apprentice,  and  he  drew  the  curtain,  and  lighted  the  can- 
dle. 

The  snow  hung  in  a  great  roll  over  the  top  of  the  stone  chim- 
ney, unstained  and  unmelted.  "  There  is  no  fire  below,"  thought 
Peter,  and  he  sighed. 

"Perhaps  it  is  the  woman's  black  hair  that  makes  her  face 
look  so  pale,"  he  thought,  as  walking  slowly  he  gazed  upon  her  ; 
but  suggestions  of  scanty  fare  would  not  be  silenced,  and  he 
sighed  again  and  walked  more  slowly  than  before.  Just  then 
the  little  child  thrust  its  naked  arms  from  out  the  ragged  blan- 
ket in  which  it  was  wrapt,  and  began  to  cry  bitterly. 


THE   HOUSE  WITH   TWO   FROXT  DOOES.  163 

Peter  stopped  and  stood  still.  In  spite  of  the  tender  coax- 
ings and  cooings  of  the  woman,  which  Peter  could  hear  from 
where  he  stood,  the  child  cried  more  and  more  bitterly.  Moved 
by  a  sudden  impulse  he  walked  directly  to  the  door  nearest  to 
which  the  woman  stood.  She  saw  him  and  opened  it  at  once, 
with  an  air  of  such  modest  sweetness,  as  caused  him  to  take 
off  his  hat — a  civility  he  had  never  shown  to  anybody  since 
coming  to  the  village  until  then. 

There  was  no  fire,  sure  enough,  and  the  other  evidences  of 
comfort  were  all  as  meagre  as  imagination  could  have  pic- 
tured them.  He  hesitated  for  a  moment  when  the  young 
woman  paused  as  if  expecting  him  to  make  known  his  errand, 
but  charity  is  never  long  in  suiting  means  to  ends,  and  he 
replied  to  her  silence  that  he  was  in  need  of  a  person  to  bind 
shoes,  and  not  knowing  where  to  seek  with  the  hope  of  success, 
had  ventured  to  inquire  of  whomever  he  chanced  to  see. 

Before  he  had  spoken  half-a-dozen  words  the  baby  lifted  its 
head  from  its  mother's  shoulder,  and  with  tears  in  its  bright 
wondering  eyes  remained  looking  at  him,  perfectly  quiet — one 
dimpled  shoulder  peeping  from  the  ragged  blanket  above  and 
two  little  bare  feet,  blue  with  cold,  dangling  below. 

Is  it  any  wonder  if  Peter  took  both  those  little  feet  in  his 
hand,  and  tried  to  warm  them  under  the  pretence  of  seeing 
whether  he  had  ever  made  so  small  a  shoe  ? 

When  he  returned  to  his  shop  that  night,  he  found  two 
young  women,  one  of  them  the  squire's  daughter,  waiting  to 
have  measures  for  shoes  taken. 

They  whispered  and  laughed  with  one  another,  not  a  little 
rudely  the  shoemaker  thought,  as  he  was  getting  ready  his  mea- 
sure, and  their  orders  were  given  in  a  manner  that  certainly 


164        THE  HOUSE  WITH  TWO  FRONT  BOOKS. 

bordered  upon  insolence — the  squire's  daughter  was  especially 
presumptuous  and  troublesome. 

She  doubted  very  much  whether  he  would  be  able  to  suit 
her  at  all,  she  said,  as  she  tossed  her  golden  curls  from  her  fire- 
red  cheeks  ;  but  she  should  not  hesitate  to  send  him.  back 
twenty  pairs  of  shoes,  if  he  failed  so  many  times  to  please  her 
— it  was  so  hard  to  make  such  people  understand  what  one 
wanted — and  with  this  little  indication  of  her  superiority  and 
willfulness,  and  with  an  indignant  fling  of  her  flounced  skirt,  she 
withdrew  without  so  much  as  the  slightest  bend  of  her  pretty 
neck. 

But  Mr.  Gilbraith  gave  little  attention  to  her  saucy  airs — 
his  thoughts  were  too  busy  with  the  pale-faced  mother,  and 
her  shivering  baby. 

When  spring  came,  two  more  lots  were  added  to  the  first 
one,  and  the  prosperous  shoemaker  built  himself  a  fine  new 
shop  with  a  great  square  show  window,  and  a  sign  almost  as 
big  as  the  squire's  front  door.  And  as  a  finishing  stroke  of 
finery,  there  was  an  imported  carpet  on  the  floor,  and 
three  yellow  Windsor  chairs  for  the  accommodation  of  the 
ladies. 

He  was  called  Mr.  Gilbraith  almost  altogether,  and  his  store 
was  the  fashionable  one  of  the  place  ;  and  when  a  brick  pave- 
ment was  laid  down  in  front  of  the  door  and  an  awning 
stretched  above  it,  that  direction  became  the  exclusive  prome- 
nade; and  every  day,  after  sunset,  some  twenty  or  thirty  young 
women  were  to  be  seen  tripping  over  the  pavement,  and  turn- 
ing their  faces  away  from  the  window,  of  course.  And  last, 
and  first,  and  oftenest,  the  squire's  daughter  was  sure  to  go  by, 
and  more  than  any  one  else  she  stopped  to  examine  the  slip- 


THE    HOUSE   WITH    TWO    FRONT   DOORS.  165 

pers  in  the  window,  at  which  times  she  took  occasion  to  toss 
her  curls  coquettishly,  and  smile  in  a  most  bewitching  fashion. 
But  the  shoemaker  worked  on  at  these  times  just  as  if  her 
pretty  face  was  not  at  the  window,  and  stimulated  by  his  indif- 
ference she  stepped  into  the  shop  one  evening  and  inquired  the 
price  of  a  pair  of  slippers  which  she  said  had  taken  her  fancy. 
He  replied  without  so  much  as  glancing  towards  her.  "  I  should 
like  to  have  them  fitted,"  she  said,  with  a  little  more  deference 
in  her  tone  than  she  had  hitherto  used,  and  sitting  down  in  the 
yellow  Windsor  chair  she  extended  her  little  foot.  The  young 
man  motioned  his  apprentice  to  wait  upon  the  lady,  but  she 
would  not  be  thus  defeated.  "  They  don't  please  altogether," 
she  said,  "  perhaps  it  is  the  fault  of  the  fitting — will  you  be 
kind  enough  to  give  me  your  opinion,  Mr.  Gilbraith."  It  was 
the  tone  rather  than  the  words  that  elicited  the  young  man's 
atteution.  He  laid  aside  his  work,  and  shaking  back  his  curls 
with  sn  grace  of  artlessness  surpassing  art,  came  forward,  the 
faint  color  of  his  face  heightened  for  the  moment  to  a  flush  of 
confusion  that  made  him  positively  handsome.  The  young  lady 
thought  so,  and  apologized  for  the  trouble  she  was  making. 
He  was  not  used  to  such  deference,  and  as  he  fitted  the  slipper, 
held  the  little  foot  in  his  hand  longer  than  need  were. 
"  There  !  that  is  perfect,"  exclaimed  the  beauty,  referring  to 
the  slipper. 

"  It  is  the  foot  that  makes  the  shoe  look  so  well,"  he  replied  ; 
"  shall  I  send  them  home  for  you  ?" 

Oh  no  !  the  beauty  would  not  give  him  so  much  trouble,  she 
was  already  greatly  obliged — and  with  a  bright  smile  and  a 
low  courtesy  that  seemed  to  say  she  was  receiving  a  favor,  took 
the  parcel  in  her  white  hand  and  was  just  stepping  from  the 


166  THE    HOUSE    WITH    TWO    FKONT   BOOKS. 

door  as  a  pale  young  woman,  with  a  bundle  of  shoes  in  one 
arm  and  a  child  hanging  over  her  shoulder,  came  in. 

All  women  love  babies — the  squire's  daughter  was  no  excep- 
tion :  and  with  an  ingenuous  exclamation  of  delight  she 
stopped,  took  the  rosy  face  of  the  little  one  between  her  hands, 
and  kissed  eyes  and  mouth  and  cheeks,  prattling  the  while,  in 
such  a  pretty  way  as  went  straight  to  the  heart  of  the  mother, 
and  made  a  softer  impression  on  the  shoemaker  than  all  her 
coquettish  arts  could  ever  have  done,  for  some  strange  affinity 
had  drawn  him  towards  that  little  helpless  creature  from  the 
dawn  of  its  unfortunate  existence.  It  often  happened  there- 
after that  when  the  village  beauty  passed  the  shoemaker's 
shop,  he  was  at  the  door  or  window,  and  gradually  the 
exchange  of  the  evening  salutation  began  to  be  looked  to  by 
both  as  the  event  of  the  day. 

All  the  summer  long  the  pale  face  was  seen  at  the  window 
of  the  house  with  the  two  front  doors,  and  late  into  the  night 
the  candle  would  shine  on  the  tired  fingers  that  were  always 
busy  binding  shoes.  The  path  up  the  hill  from  the  shoe-shop 
to  the  door  was  worn  quite  distinctly  along  the  sod,  and  the 
shoemaker  was  observed  to  walk  along  it  very  frequently 
— more  frequently,  the  neighbors  thought,  than  business 
required. 

Meantime  the  baby  grew  more  and  more  in  the  affection  of 
the  young  shoemaker,  and  he  would  often  take  with  him  when 
he  went  to  the  house,  a  flower  or  an  apple  or  some  other  trifle 
to  please  her  baby  eyes,  and  she  would  reach  her  hands  up  to 
be  taken  on  his  knee,  and  he  would  bend  his  head  and  allow 
her  to  make  playthings  of  his  curls,  at  will.  No  wonder  she 
grew  fond  of  him  and  learned  to  clap  her  hands  and  crow 


THE   HOTTSE    WITH   TWO   FRONT   DOORS.  167 

when  she  saw  him,  for  is  it  not  true  that  Providence  "  creates 
the  love  to  reward  the  love  ?"  And  when  this  little  child  had 
found  access  to  his  heart  it  became  gradually  more  accessible 
to  others,  for  the  humanizing  influence  of  love,  even  for  a  flower 
or  a  dumb  animal,  is  beyond  calculation.  Like  the  dew  and 
the  rain  that  help  to  mould  the  dust  into  the  rose,  it  falls 
into  the  desert  of  life,  and  straightway  a  garden  is  pro- 
duced. 

Everybody  said,  "  "What  a  change  has  come  over  Gilbraith 
— he  is  not  the  Shoe  Pete  he  used  to  be  at  all ;"  but  no  one 
dreamed  what  had  wrought  the  change. 

And  the  summer  went  by  and  the  bright  leaves  fell  on  the 
brighter  head  of  the  little  girl  as  the  shoemaker  tugged  her 
about  among  the  hollyhocks  and  poppies  of  the  door-yard. 

The  house  with  the  two  front  doors  had  a  smoke  in  its  chim- 
ney all  that  winter,  and  the  gossips  said  the  mistress  of  it  was 
binding  the  shoemaker's  heart  as  well  as  his  shoes,  but  the 
wisest  gossips  are  at  fault,  sometimes. 

It  was  the  week  before  Christmas  and  the  pale-faced  shoe- 
binder  was  at  her  work,  paler  and  perhaps  more  melancholy 
than  usual,  for  it  was  hard  to  get  along  at  the  best,  and  it  was 
now  mid-winter,  and  her  health,  less  robust  than  it  used  to  be, 
was  scarcely  equal  to  the  demands  upon  it. 

Little  Orphic,  for  so  the  fatherless  child  had  been  named, 
had  learnt  to  lisp,  "  mother,"  but  she  called  that  name  less 
often  than  Gabriel  as  she  persisted  in  designating  Mr.  Gil- 
braith. She  had  fallen  asleep  in  his  arms,  and  her  upturned 
face  seemed  asking  to  be  kissed  as  her  bright  little  head  rested 
against  his  bosom.  He  pulled  down  her  coarse  scanty  dress, 
for  her  bare  legs  dangled  out  of  it,  and  said  speaking  partly 


168  THE   HOFSE   WITH   TWO    FRONT   DOORS. 

to  himself  and  partly  to  the  child,  "  Xcxt  birthday  little 
Orphie  shall  have  a  new  dress,  bright  as  the  poppies  she  likes 
so  much." 

Perhaps  it  was  the  allusion  to  her  birthday  that  awoke  in 
the  mind  of  the  mother  unwelcome  memories,  for  throwing 
down  her  work  with  angry  haste,  she  laid  the  child  in  the  cra- 
dle, and  with  a  scornful  flush  on  her  cheek  removed  it  from  the 
warmth  of  the  firelight  into  the  darkest  corner  of  the  room. 

"What  did  you  do  that  for?"  asked  the  shoemaker  with 
both  authority  and  displeasure  in  his  tone. 

"  What  right  have  you  to  dictate  in  reference  to  my  child  ?" 
she  replied,  and  resumed  her  work  with  an  averted  face.. 

"  The  right  which  my  love  for  her  gives  me,"  he  said,  in  a 
tone  very  gentle  and  winning. 

The  mother's  heart  was  touched,  and  hiding  her  face  in  her 
hands  she  burst  into  tears — poverty,  shame,  pride,  and  sorrow, 
had  produced  a  momentary  feeling  of  harshness  even  for  her 
child,  but  the  next  instant  she  was  humbly  and  heartily  repen- 
tant. 

"  I  wish  I  was  dead,"  she  sobbed,  at  length,  "  or  that  I 
never  had  been  born — that  would  be  better  ;  nobody  cares  for 
me  in  the  world,  and  even  you  are  stealing  from  ine  the  heart 
of  my  child  !" 

The  young  man  was  making  some  tender  apology,  to  the 
effect  that  it  was  through  the  child's  heart  that  he  had  hoped 
ultimately  to  reach  the  mother's,  when  a  loud  knock  on  the 
door  arrested  the  attention  of  both  parties,  and  caused  the 
baby  to  sit  suddenly  upright,  and  stare  wonderingly  about. 

"  You  may  bring  her  cradle  back  where  it  was,"  said  the 
mother  softly,  and  hastily  brushing  the  tears  away,  she  opened 


THE   HOUSE   WITH   TWO   FROXT   DOORS.  169 

the  door  with  a  smile  that  changed  to  an  expression  of  pleased 
surprise  when  she  saw  that  the  visitor  was  Squire  Bigsham. 

"  You  need  not  trouble  yourself  about  the  cradle,"  she  said, 
almost  coldly,  and  aside,  as  it  were,  to  the  shoemaker,  and 
from  that  moment,  gave  her  undivided  attention  to  the  more 
distinguished  guest. 

When  Mr.  Gilbraith  returned  home  he  found  a  dainty  little 
note  awaiting  him — Miss  Bigsham  presented  her  compliments 
and  begged  the  honor  of  Mr.  Gilbraith's  company  on  Christ- 
mas Eve. 

"  By  George  !  but  she's  the  prettiest  girl  what's  in  this 
town  ?"  exclaimed  the  apprentice,  as  he  presented  the  note,  and 
he  added,  as  he  saw  the  smile  on  his  employer's  face,  "  I  cut 
the  best  piece  of  ribbon  in  the  store  to  make  rosyetts  to  put 
onto  her  shoes  !" 

"  Quite  right,"  replied  Mr.  Gilbraith,  and  refolding  the  note, 
he  placed  it  carefully  in  his  vest  pocket. 

The  following  evening  the  mistress  of  the  house  with  the 
two  front  doors  failed  to  return  her  work,  as  usual — the 
next  day  the  apprentice  was  sent  for  it,  and  received  the 
answer  that  it  was  not  yet  completed.  Among  the  rest  were 
a  pair  of  slippers  for  Miss  Bigsham.  They  must  be  sent  home 
before  the  Christmas  Eve,  and  having  waited  as  long  as  he 
could,  Mr.  Gilbraith  went  himself,  and  in  a  mood  less  amiable 
than  common.  Not  a  stitch  had  been  set  in  the  slippers, 
and  the  fingers  that  should  have  done  that  work  were  busy 
making  a  shirt  for  Squire  Bigsham. 

The  shoemaker  was  angry,  but  his  first  expression  of  dis- 
pleasure was  arrested  by  little  Orphic,  who  clung  to  his  knees, 
Baying,  "  Gabriel,  Gabriel,"  in  her  almost  wild  delight.  He 


170  THE   HOUSE   WITH   TWO   FRONT   BOOKS. 

stooped  and  kissed  her,   and  without  another  word  left  the 
house. 

Christmas  Eve  saw  him  at  Squire  Bigsham's,  and  no  one  of 
all  the  gay  assembly  so  much  honored  by  the  squire's  beauti- 
ful daughter  as  he.  She  was  noted  for  her  graceful  dancing, 
but  that  night  she  preferred,  strangely  enough,  her  friends 
thought,  more  quiet  amusements.  Mr.  Gilbraith,  however,  was 
not  ignorant  of  the  fact  that  his  inability  to  dance  influenced 
her  preference,  nor  could  he  remain  quite  insensible  to  that 
preference,  for  Miss  Bigsham  was  the  admiration  of  the  vil- 
lage, and  he  to  whom  she  extended  her  lightest  favor  was 
deemed  fortunate  indeed.  Pride  has  more  authority  in  matters 
of  love  than  we  are  apt  to  believe,  and  the  shoemaker's  heart 
had  its  share  of  vanity  and  weakness. 

Many  a  night  after  that,  when  he  had  been  passing  the 
evening  with  the  squire's  daughter,  he  would  go  home  by  the 
way  of  the  house  with  the  two  front  doors,  and  sometimes  lin- 
ger a  long  time  watching  the  lights  as  they  moved  about,  sigh- 
ing regretfully  ;  for  the  breach  created  between  him  and  the 
pale-faced  young  woman  on  the  occasion  of  the  squire's  first 
visit  to  her  was  destined  never  to  close  up,  and  be  as  it  was 
before.  Little  Orphie,  however,  did  not  share  in  the  aliena- 
tion, and  when  her  birthday  came  round,  true  to  his  promise, 
he  gave  her  the  new  dress,  red  as  it  could  be,  and  exceedingly 
beautiful  in  her  eyes. 

"  You  had  better  give  it  to  the  great  beauty  who  has  made  you 
so  blind  to  everybody  else,"  said  Orphie's  mother  ungraciously. 

"  Why  do  you  decline  to-say  Miss  Bigsham  ?"  answered  the 
shoemaker,  "  for  doubtless  it  is  she  to  whom  you  allude — surely 
that  name  is  not  so  obnoxious  to  you." 


THE   HOUSE   WITH   TWO   FRONT   DOORS.  171 

A  conversation  beginning  thus  was  not  likely  to  end  in  a 
more  agreeable  state  of  feeling  than  had  previously  existed, 
and  from  that  day  the  old  breach  was  visibly  widened,  and  the 
intercourse  between  the  lovers,  for  such  they  had  really  been, 
was  restricted  entirely  to  the  shoe-binding. 

Once,  indeed,  afterwards,  he  knocked  on  one  of  the  two  doors 
with  the  express  design  of  humbling  all  his  pride,  and  express- 
ing fully  the  sentiment  which  needed  not  the  warranty  of 
expression,  but  when  the  door  was  opened  by  the  hand  of 
Squire  Bigsham,  his  tenderness  and  courage  received  together 
a  stroke  from  which  they  never  recovered. 

The  springtime  just  beginning  to  bud  in  his  nature  was 
blighted — he  withdrew  into  himself,  and  suffered  the  old  hard- 
ness and  indifference  to  divide  him  from  men  and  women  again. 

The  squire's  daughter  lost  her  brief  power,  and  though  she 
tried  to  cover  her  discomfiture  with  gaiety  and  flirtation,  she 
steadily  refused  all  offers  of  marriage,  and  the  roses  died  out 
of  her  cheeks,  one  by  one. 

When  five  years  were  gone  her  curls  wore  put  plainly  away, 
and  she  was  grown  as  quiet  and  reserved  almost  as  the  shoe- 
maker himself,  with  whom  meantime  the  world  had  continued 
to  prosper,  and  he  was  become  one  of  the  richest  and  most 
influential  of  the  citizens  among  whom  he  lived,  for  the  little 
town  where  he  settled  had  grown  to  a  city. 

Little  Orpine  was  big  enough  now  to  bring  and  carry  work 
to  and  from  her  mother's  house  ;  every  day  she  was  seen  trip- 
ping down  the  hill  with  a  bundle  in  her  arms,  and  every  day  the 
shoemaker  kissed  her  and  called  her  his  little  sunbeam,  and  so 
she  was  in  fact,  for  she  lighted  his  lonesome  life  more  than  any- 
thing else. 


172  THE    HOUSE   WITH   TWO   FRONT  DOORS. 

The  squire's  daughter  and  he  had  been  almost  estranged  for 
the  last  year.  One  day,  to  his  surprise,  she  came  to  see  him, 
her  face  pale  and  her  eyes  swollen  from  weeping  ;  her  father 
was  about  to  be  married,  she  said,  to  the  woman  who  lived  in 
the  house  with  the  two  front  doors — she  could  never  be  recon- 
ciled to  such  a  marriage,  and  was  about  to  leave  her  native 
home  to  make  room  for  the  intruder,  and  could  not  go  away 
without  seeing  Mr.  Gilbraith  once  more,  and  feeling  that  they 
parted  good  friends.  Her  trembling  voice  and  wet  cheeks 
told  how  bitter,  at  best,  that  parting  must  be  ;  suffice  it  that  it 
never  came  about,  and  that  instead,  she  became  in  due  course 
of  time,  the  mistress  of  a  fine  house  of  her  own,  and  the  wife 
of  Mr.  Gilbraith. — Everybody  envied  the  couple  and  thought 
them  very  happy,  and  so  perhaps  they  were  ;  nevertheless  the 
husband  had  his  fits  of  melancholy,  and  had,  it  was  reported, 
a  room  set  apart  in  his  fine  house  where  he  was  accustomed  to 
retire  for  hours  together,  during  which  times  even  his  beautiful 
wife  was  excluded  from  his  sympathy. 

The  house  with  the  two  front  doors  was  deserted,  and  when 
Squire  Bigsham's  wife  sat  in  the  front  pew  of  the  church,  or 
invited  her  friends  to  dine,  it  was  no  longer  remembered  that 
she  had  ever  lived  there  in  neglect  and  poverty. 

When  little  Orphic  was  sick,  Mrs.  Gilbraith  went  home,  and 
when  she  died  Mrs.  Bigsham  shook  hands  with  Mr.  Gilbraith 
and  in  the  child's  grave  all  unfriendly  feeling  was  buried. 

When  Peter  Gilbraith,  junior,  was  christened,  there  was  a 
great  merry-making  at  Squire  Bigsham's,  and  when  he  was  six 
years  old  there  was  no  boy  to  be  found  who  had  so  fine  a 
beauty  and  so  manly  a  courage  as  he.  It  was  the  autumn  of 
that  year,  a  rainy  night,  and  the  yellow  leaves  were  coming 


THE   HOUSE   WITH   TWO   FRONT   DOOES.  173 

down  with  every  gust.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gilbraith  sat  chatting 
before  a  little  fire,  very  happily,  and  making  plans  for  the  cele- 
bration of  their  wedding  day.  Little  Peter  was  playing  in  the 
room  specially  dedicated  to  his  father — he  was  fond  of  being 
there  because  it  was  a  liberty  not  often  granted  him.  Sud- 
denly he  came  staggering  towards  his  parents — his  eyes  staring 
wide,  and  his  face  white  as  it  could  be.  As  soon  as  he  could 
speak  he  said  that  while  he  was  at  play,  a  little  girl  wearing  a 
red  dress  came  to  him  and  kissed  him,  and  that  when  he  spoke 
to  her  she  turned  into  a  shadow.  The  anniversary  celebration 
was  talked  of  no  more  that  night. 


UNCLE    JOHN'S    STOHY. 


"  HALLOO  the  house  1" 

"  Halloo  !     Who  is  there  ?" 

It  was  about  eight  o'clock  of  a  March  evening,  a  good  many 
years  ago,  that  I  sat  in  the  chimney  corner  at  my  grandfather's 
house,  watching  the  smoldering  logs,  and  listening  to  the  rain, 
which  had  been  pouring  and  pouring  for  three  long  days.  The 
meadows  were  soaked,  the  creeks  swollen,  and  pools  of  water 
standing  everywhere. 

I  was  lonesome  and  homesick,  for  I  was  away  from  home 
for  the  first  time  in  my  life  ;  and  though  it  was  at  my  grand- 
father's house,  I  received  none  of  those  privileges  and  petting 
attentions  that  children  are  now  a-days  accustomed  to  expect 
from  grandparents^ 

The  ancient  homestead  was  one  of  the  most  retired  and 
altogether  unattractive  that  ever  resisted  the  peltings  of  a 
March  storm.  Indeed,  it  would  be  difficult  to  imagine  a  less 
enjoyable  situation  for  a  young  woman  of  twelve  years  old,  or 
thereabouts,  to  be  placed  in.  Too  young  to  appreciate  the 
sage  and  solemn  doctrine  that  made  up  the  discourse  of  the  old 
people,  and  too  thoughtless  to  press  reason  into  my  service, 
there  was  little  for  me  to  do,  but  suffer  and  be  still. 

174 


UNCLE  JOHN'S  STOET.  175 

If  I  looked  through  the  small  window-panes,  down  which  the 
rain  was  pouring  in  streams,  I  could  see  nothing  but  a  circle 
of  woods,  if  my  eyes  wandered  beyond  the  patch  of  cleared 
land  that  held  the  house  and  barn  and  mill,  the  main  road 
being  quite  out  of  view.  If  I  had  been  a  few  years  older,  I 
might  have  found  the  sunshiny  face  of  Cyrus  Hall,  who  was  my 
grandfather's  hired  man,  genial  as  the  sunshine  itself ;  but  as  it 
was,  though  I  received  alleviation,  even  comfort  from  his  kind- 
nesses, I  was  far  from  that  state  of  beatitude  which  bringetb. 
utter  forgetfulness  of  clouds.  He  had  told  me  over  and  over 
that  it  would  stop  raining  in  a  day  or  two,  and  that  the  wet 
cornstalks  which  lay  between  the  wood  and  the  mill  would  in  a 
single  day  get  dry  enough  to  burn  ;  and  then  he  would  gather 
them  up  in  heaps  and  burn  them  after  nightfall,  and  have — oh, 
such  fun  !  But  he  found  it  hard  to  make  me  believe,  in  my  then 
state  of  mind,  that  the  sun  would  ever  shine  again,  or  that  the 
cornstalks  would  ever  be  dry  enough  to  burn,  and  if  they  should 
be,  grandfather  would  not  allow  us  to  burn  them,  I  argued,  for 
my  mood  of  mind  inclined  me  to  augment  my  sorrows. 

To  the  best  of  my  knowledge  and  belief,  my  ancient  grand- 
mother would  continue  to  knit  at  the  stocking  she  was  busy 
with  till  the  day  of  doom,  and  that  my  grandfather  would  ever 
close  the  big  Bible  from  which  he  was  reading,  and  speak  or 
smile  again,  I  bad  not  the  remotest  idea.  The  very  cat 
stretched  across  the  hearth,  seemed  to  me  indicative  of  final 
repose.  No  wonder  the  tears  would  start  now  and  then. 

There  was  one  candle  burning,  and  besides  a  little  glow  from 
the  fire  there  was  no  other  light,  except  what  Cyrus's  eyes 
made,  and  they  were  as  bright  as  they  could  be  with  hope  and 
good  humor.  He  was  about  twenty  years  old,  red-cheeked, 


176  UNCLE  JOHN'S  STORY. 

and  beautiful  as  a  young  rose,  and  in  exuberance  of  spirits 
contrasted  strikingly  with  the  severe  gravity  of  my  white- 
headed  grandfather. 

Now  and  then,  the  cattle  in  the  sheds  lowed  uneasily,  for 
they,  too,  were  tired  of  the  rain  ;  or  one  of  the  work-horses 
put  his  head  out  of  the  window  of  his  stable  and  neighed,  and 
except  these,  there  was  no  sound  but  that  of  the  rain  on  the 
roof,  and  the  ticking  of  the  clock  ;  for  Cyrus  talked  in  whispers 
as  a  single  word  spoken  above  the  breath,  while  my  grand- 
father was  reading,  would  have  been  an  awful  breach  of  family 
discipline.  He  had  exhibited  whatever  he  possessed  that 
could  amuse  me — from  the  picture-book  presented  by  his  school- 
master, with  "  Reward  of  merit "  written  on  the  fly-leaf  in 
flourishing  characters,  to  a  late  purchase  of  a  silk  pocket-hand- 
kerchief and  razor  ;  and  at  the  time  our  story  opens,  was  tell- 
ing me  the  history  of  his  life — partly,  perhaps,  for  the  want  of 
a  better  listener.  His  father  was  a  wood-chopper,  who  rented 
a  cabin,  and  moved  from  one  place  to  another,  as  opportuni- 
ties of  work  offered  inducements  ;  at  nine  years  old,  he  himself 
had  been  compelled  to  earn  his  own  living,  and  in  his  tossing 
about  the  pendant  world,  had  gained  all  the  knowledge  he  was 
possessed  of. 

There  fell  a  shadow  across  his  face  towards  the  close  of  his 
story,  such  as  I  had  never  seen  it  wear  before,  and  when  I 
asked  him  what  the  matter  was,  he  answered  "  nothing,"  and 
then  said  he  was  thinking  of  something  I  could  not  understand. 
I  said  I  would  try,  and  then  he  told  me  that  he  knew  a  young 
woman  once,  not  much  bigger  than  I,  whom  he  liked  better 
than  he  ever  liked  any  one  else,  but  that  she  was  rich  and 
himself  poor,  so  he  had  come  away  from  the  neighbor- 


TTXCLE   JOHN'S    STOKY.  177 

hood  where  she  lived,  and  never   expected  to  see  her  any 
more. 

Suddenly  he  ceased  his  narrative — my  grandmother  let  fall 
her  knitting  work,  and  my  grandfather,  closing  the  old  Bible, 
walked  straight  out  into  the  rain,  and  responded — 

"  Halloo  !  Who  is  there  ?"  to  the  "  Halloo  the  house  !" 
recorded  in  the  opening  of  this  chapter.  The  wonder  who 
could  be  coming  at  that  time  of  night,  and  in  so  terrible  a 
storm,  held  us  all  breathless. 

"  Cyrus,  bring  out  the  lantern — quick  !"  called  my  grand- 
father, and  in  a  moment,  without  hat  or  coat,  Cyrus  was  in 
the  yard,  the  lantern  glimmering  before  him. 

How  much  I  wished  to  ask  my  grandmother  who  she  thought 
was  coming,  but  to  ask  direct  questions  was  not  among  my 
privileges,  so  I  contented  my  curiosity  as  well  as  I  could  by 
listening  towards  the  open  door  through  which  the  rain  was 
driving  freely.  The  door-yard  gate  creaked  on  its  hinges,  and 
then  came  a  noise  like  a  team  drawing  a  wagon  that  cut  its 
slow  way  heavily  through  the  soaked  earth. 

"  Whoa  !"  was  heard  next,  and  the  team  stood  still  right 
against  the  blue  stones  at  the  door. 

"  Take  my  hand,  Uncle  John,  and  step  here  1"  I  heard  a 
voice  that  was  all  music  and  melody  say,  and  presently  a 
young  woman,  muffled  in  a  shawl  and  hood,  came  into  the 
house,  leading  by  the  hand  a  grey-haired  man  with  a  very  pale 
face. 

"  Bring  yonr  lantern  this  way,  Cyrus,"  called  my  grand- 
father, as  he  saw  them  feeling  their  way  through  the  dark,  but 
no  Cyrus  appeared,  and  presently,  his  white  hair  clinging  to  his 
head,  and  accompanied  by  a  boy  of  some  fourteen  years,  he 

8* 


178  UNCLE  JOHN'S  STORY. 

entered  and,  closing  the  door,  presented  the  strangers  by 
saying,  "Here  are  some  travellers  come  to  stay  all  night  with 
ns — the  bridge  is  swept  from  Bear  Creek,  and  they  can  get  no 
further  at  present." 

"  We  are  very  sorry  it  happened  so,"  said  the  pale  man, 
"  but  you  must  not  allow  us  to  make  you  more  trouble  than  is 
necessary — myself  and  Thomas  can  lie  on  the  floor  before  the 
fire,  but  Nanny  here  is  sickly,  poor  child,  and  if  you  could  give 
her  a  bed,  why,  we  will  do  as  much  for  somebody  some  time,  if 
not  for  you." 

He  put  his  arm  around  the  waist  of  the  girl,  as  he  spoke 
and  I  saw  that  she  was  trembling — almost  crying. 

"  You  are  wet,  poor  Nanny,"  he  said,  untying  her  hood,  and 
passing  his  hand  tenderly  along  her  hair. 

She  evidently  made  a  strong  effort  to  recover  herself,  and 
answered  in  a  tone  of  assumed  cheerfulness — 

"  I  shall  do  well  enough,  Uncle  John,  but  you  will  be  sick 
I  am  afraid  ;"  and  she  placed  a  chair  for  him,  saying  apologet- 
ically as  he  felt  about  awkwardly  to  find  it — "  My  uncle  is 
blind,  and  I  bespeak  the  spare  bed  for  him." 

"  I  guess,"  said  my  grandmother,  "  we  can  give  you  all  beds 
and  something  a  little  comforting  besides."  And  relieving 
Nanny  of  her  wet  shawl  and  hood,  she  hastened  to  put  on  the 
tea-kettle. 

My  grandfather,  meantime,  was  brightening  up  the  fire,  and 
entertaining  Thomas  with  an  account  of  the  damage  done  in 
the  neighborhood  by  the  rain. 

Nanny  was  pretty,  but  her  blue  eyes  had,  I  thought,  a 
bewildered  and  frightened  look,  and  she  almost  clung  to  the 
hand  of  Uncle  John  as  it  lay  in  her  lap. 


TJKCLE   JOHN'S    STORY.  179 

"  There  was  another  one  who  came  out  and  assisted  us  in," 
said  the  blind  man,  directly,  as  he  listened  to  the  different 
voices — "  where  is  he,  Nanny  ?" 

The  girl's  face  flushed  red  as  fire,  and  she  answered  nothing. 

"  That  was  Cyrus,  my  hired  man,"  replied  my  grandfather, 
speaking  very  loud,  as  if  a  blind  man  was  .necessarily  deaf  too, 
"  and  he  is  feeding  your  horses." 

"  I  wonder  he  don't  come  in,"  he  added,  speaking  to  himself. 
Nanny's  face  had  grown  white  now,  and  she  leaned  against 
Uncle  John's  shoulder,  saying,  in  answer  to  his  inquiries,  that 
the  fire  made  her  feel  faint,  she  believed.  My  grandmother 
proposed  all  the  cordials  at  her  command,  but  Nanny  steadily 
refused,  saying  she  would  be  better  directly.  She  gave  no 
signs  of  being  better,  however,  and  when  it  was  proposed  that 
she  should  lie  down  till  supper  was  ready,  she  acceded  with 
an  eager  thankfulness,  and  was  led  away  to  the  tiny  bedroom 
where  my  grandmother  kept  her  silver  spoons,  and  extra  china, 
in  a  corner  cupboard. 

My  services  were  brought  into  requisition  in  the  arrangement 
of  the  supper-table,  and  on  going  to  the  corner  cupboard  for 
the  spoons,  I  perceived  that  Nanny  had  turned  her  face  from 
the  light  and  was  evidently  crying. 

I  forgot  my  own  homesickness  in  my  anxiety  to  do  or  say 
something  that  might  comfort  her,  but  I  was  bashful,  and  only 
dared  to  shade  the  light  and  walk  on  tiptoe  by  way  of  mani- 
festing my  interest.  At  last  we  had  the  supper  prepared, 
toast  and  tea  and  honey,  and  I  know  not  what  all  besides,  and 
my  grandmother  set  the  tea  to  draw  in  the  best  china  teapot, 
and  the  puffing  tea-kettle  close  by  it,  and  we  ranged  ourselves 
round  the  fire  to  wait  for  Cyrus  to  coine  in. 


180  UNCLE  JOHN'S  STORY, 

All  eyes  turned  to  the  blind  man — my  grandmother  sighed 
heavily,  and  there  fell  a  sympathetic  silence  over  the  group. 

"  I  see  how  it  is,"  said  Uncle  John,  smiling,  "  but  there  is 
no  need  that  you  should  pity  me  ;  and  if  you  have  any  pity  to 
spare  I  entreat  that  you  will  give  it  to  my  little  niece,  Nauny, 
for  whose  sake,  in  fact,  we  are  on  our  travels,  more  than  for 
anything  else.  We  hoped  it  would  divert  her  mind  from  an 
unhappy  memory,  but  it  seemed  to-night  as  if  the  old  feeling 
mastered  her  again — I  knew  it  by  her  trembling  voice  and 
hand." 

"  Poor  dear  child  !"  said  my  grandmother,  with  a  woman's 
quick  sympathy — "  I'll  go  straight  and  carry  her  a  cup  of  tea 
— I  hope  she  did  not  catch  cold  ;"  and  she  had  Nanny's  little 
feet  in  her  hands,  almost  while  she  spoke.  She  presently 
returned,  saying  with  a  cheerful  manner,  and  addressing  herself 
particularly  to  Thomas,  that  his  sister  seemed  to  be  sleeping 
very  sweetly. 

I  have  suspected  since  that  the  sweet  sleep  was  all  an  affec- 
tation. 

"  How  did  it  happen  that  you  lost  your  eyes  ?"  asked  my 
grandfather,  perhaps  more  to  arouse  the  blind  man  from  the 
revery  into  which  he  had  fallen,  than  from  curiosity. 

"  Tell  them  all  about  it,  Uncle  John,"  said  Thomas,  speak- 
ing for  the  first  time,  and  blushing  with  embarrassment,  "  it's 
good  as  a  sermon." 

"  Oh,  it's  no  story  at  all,"  replied  Uncle  John  ;  but  we  all 
Baid,  "  tell  us  about  it,  at  any  rate  ;"  and  having  listened  for  a 
moment  at  the  door  to  see  whether  Nanny  were  still  asleep,  he 
began  : 

"  I  may  begin  by  saying,  so  as  to  prevent  further  waste  of 


UNCLE  JOHN'S   STOKT.  181 

sympathy,  I  am  voluntarily  blind.  My 'earliest  memory  is  con- 
nected with  lamentations  about  my  blindness.  My  parents 
were  wealthy,  and  I,  a  fondly-expected  son,  so  you  can  perhaps 
imagine  the  suffering  occasioned  by  what  they  termed  my  mis- 
fortune ;  it  was  the  first  great  sorrow  of  their  lives,  and  my 
own  happiness  was  constantly  diminished  by  the  knowledge 
that  I  was  a  heavy  burden  to  their  hands.  Sometimes  hearing 
the  merriment  in  the  parlor,  I  would  feel  my  way  along  the 
walls  and  by  the  furniture  till  I  would  touch  my  mother's 
knees  ;  but  it  seemed  as  if  a  great  melancholy  shadow  fell  over 
them  all  at  my  entrance,  and  the  voices  were  subdued,  and  the 
laughter  hushed  ;  so  I  learned  by  degrees  to  live  much  alone, 
and  it  is  astonishing  within  how  small  a  compass  we  can  find 
enjoyment  enough.  I  was  naturally  of  a  happy  and  contented 
disposition,  and  in  sitting  in  the  sunshine  often  experienced 
more  delight  than  my  playmates  seemed  to  find  in  their  greater 
privileges. 

"  I  learned  to  read,  and  what  with  my  books  and  my  play 
made  myself  so  happy  that  my  parents  felt  their  burden  lighter, 
and  finally,  as  they  became  used  to  my  condition,  I  believe  I 
really  afforded  them  a  good  deal  of  comfort.  I  was  always, 
however,  called  poor  unfortunate  little  John,  and  to  the  end  of 
their  days  they  held  frequent  consultations  concerning  opera- 
tions, which  my  mother  could  never  quite  consent  to,  and  of 
famous  opticians  who  had  made  the  blind  to  see. 

"  I  did  not  feel  the  loss  they  lamented  so  much,  and  could  run 
up  and  down  the  stairs,  from  room  to  room,  and  about  the  door- 
yard  as  readily  as  any  one.  I  could  distinguish  everybody  I 
knew  by  their  step — all  the  colors  I  had  fixed  in  my  mind, 
which  was  stored,  too,  with  pictures  of  all  my  friends.  My 


182  UNCLE  JOHN'S  STORY. 

parents  died,  thank  God,  without  my  having  ever  seen  either 
of  them.  Not  for  the  world  would  I  have  had  the  sweet 
impression  I  still  retain  of  their  faces,  unsettled. 

"  I  was  forty  years  old  when  I  went  to  live  with  my  brother 
Moses,  and  then  came  a  new  torture  in  the  shape  of  new  sym- 
pathy. It  was  all  'poor  Uncle  John,'  now,  as  it  had  been 
'  poor  little  John '  when  I  was  a  boy.  Only  Nanny,  dear  little 
girl,  never  mourned  over  me — I  wish  I  never  had  over  her  ;  she 
used  to  climb  on  my  knees  and  read  stories  by  the  hour,  and 
sing  songs  for  me,  and  tell  me  how  everything  looked  that  I 
could  not  see,  and  laugh  and  clap  her  hands  at  the  odd  fancies 
I  had  formed.  She  was  full  of  frolic  and  fun,  and  made  the 
house  gay  with  her  chattering  from  morning  till  night — poor 
Nauny  1 

"  When  they  told  me  she  was  fifteen  years  old,  I  could  not 
believe  it,  for  to  me  she  was  a  pet  and  plaything,  and  try  as  I 
would  I  could  not  make  her  a  woman.  About  this  time  my 
brother  Moses,  who  was  beginning  to  grow  feeble,  hired  a  young 
man  to  assist  in  the  farm-work,  Thomas  being  then  at  school. 
He  often  talked  of  his  poverty,  and  told  us  stories  of  the  hard 
times  he  had  seen  ;  but  he  was  hopeful  and  genial,  almost  mak- 
ing a  jest  of  his  misfortunes — then,  too,  he  was  so  industrious 
and  obliging  that  we  all  learned  to  love  him.  As  for  myself  I 
liked  him  none  the  less  on  account  of  his  poverty — I  could  not 
feel  any  difference,  and  as  I  could  not  see  any,  why  it  made  no 
difference  to  me  whether  he  were  poor  or  rich. 

"  One  frosty  evening  Nanny  was  sitting  on  my  knee,  singing 
one  of  my  favorite  songs,  when  '  Cy/  as  we  always  called  him, 
came  in  from  the  field  and  sat  down  by  the  fire. 

"  '  Dear  me,  Uncle  John  1'  exclaimed  Nanny,  breaking  off  her 


TTNCLE   JOHN'S   STORY.  183 

song,  '  Cyrus  has  no  stockings  on  ! — mustn't  he  be  cold  ?' 
'  Cold  !  No,'  replied  Cyrus,  '  I  have  seen  the  time  I  had  no 
shoes — did  I  never  tell  you  about  my  first  pair  ? — I  was  ten 
years  old  when  I  got  them,  and  earned  the  money  to  buy  them 
myself.'  'Pray  tell  me  all  about  it,'  said  Nanny,  and  she 
was  off  my  knee  and  sitting  beside  the  young  farmer,  in  a 
twinkling.  I  don't  remember  what  the  particulars  were,  and 
no  matter — enough  that  Nanny  found  them  interesting  ;  and 
not  long  after  this  when  I  missed  a  ring  I  had  put  on  her 
finger,  and  inquired  what  she  had  done  with  it,  she  replied 
artlessly  that  she  had  given  it  to  Cyrus  ! 

"  So  it  came  about  that  I  liked  the  young  man  less  and  less, 
and  Nanny  liked  him  more  and  more — indeed  she  was  never 
weary  of  praising  him. 

"  My  brother,  who  was  growing  feebler  all  the  time,  seeing 
that  his  end  approached,  became  doubly  anxious  that  my  eyes 
should  be  operated  upon.  If  he  could  leave  me  guardian  of  his 
children  he  would  die  happy,  he  said.  How  little  we  under 
stand  what  we  ask  for. 

"  As  if  in  answer  to  his  wishes,  there  came  into  the  neighbor- 
hood a  great  oculist,  and  partly  to  soothe  my  dying  brother, 
and  partly  to  realize  the  heaven  I  had  been  taught  to  believe  I 
should  find  if  I  but  had  my  sight,  I  submitted  my  blind  organs 
to  his  operative  skill,  and  to  the  astonishment  and  joy  of  every 
one,  I  was  made  to  see  I 

"  Bequeathing  me  the  care  of  his  children,  Moses  died  happy, 
and  more  than  happy. 

"  But  whatever  pleasure  my  new  sense  gave  to  others,  it  was 
only  a  source  of  discomfort  to  me.  It  was  quite  superfluous, 
and  I  could  do  nothing  with  it.  It  clashed  with  all  my  previous 


184  UNCLE  JOHN'S  STOET. 

ideas  of  things,  and  I  could  not  reconcile  anything.  Colors  I 
could  not  distinguish,  except  by  the  old  method  of  passing  my 
hand  over  them  ;  of  distances  I  could  form  no  idea,  and  I  fell 
down  continually  if  I  undertook  to  walk,  so  when  I  desired  to 
go  from  one  place  to  another  I  was  obliged  to  close  my  eyes 
and  feel  my  way  as  I  used  to.  In  fact,  I  had  no  pleasure,  so 
continually  was  I  running  into  the  fire  or  the  water,  or  against 
the  wall,  except  in  bandaging  my  eyes  and  making  believe  I 
was  blind  again. 

"  My  friends  I  did  not  know,  and  strange  to  say,  did  not  like 
as  my  new  sense  revealed  them.  I  became  dissatisfied  with 
myself,  and  with  everything  ;  irritable,  and  ultimately,  I  think, 
not  far  from  insane.  Is  it  any  wonder  if  Nanny  became  more 
and  more  alienated  from  me,  and  more  and  more  attached  to 
Cyrus  ? 

"  Glad  of  any  pretext,  I  argued  if  his  motives  were  honor- 
able it  was  necessary  he  should  he  more  explicit,  for  with  all  his 
demonstrations,  he  had  never  said  he  loved  Nanny,  as  she 
owned,  and  never  asked  her  to  marry  him.  Besides,  I  said  it 
was  a  scandal  that  she,  who  was  an  heiress,  should  marry  her 
father's  hired  man  I  Poor  Nanny  could  only  hide  her  face  and 
cry  ;  and  the  end  of  it  was  the  dismissal  of  Cyrus  upon  some 
false  pretext  and  the  breaking  of  Nanny's  heart. 

"  When  he  had  been  away  six  months  you  would  not  have 
known  her  for  the  same  girl — there  was  no  singing,  and  no 
story-telling  any  more,  but  only  moping  and  sighing  from  morn- 
ing till  night.  I  settled  all  my  fortune  upon  her,  but  she  never 
smiled  half  so  brightly  as  I  had  seen  her  when  Cyrus  but  gave 
her  his  hand. 

"  I  sent  for  the  physicians  whose  skill  recommended  them, 


TTN~eLE   JOHN'S    STORY.  185 

but  spite  all  they  could  do,  she  grew  quietly  and  steadily  thinner 
and  paler,  unlil  she  became  the  sickly  and  unstable  creature 
you  saw  to-night.  I  was  glad  when  I  found  the  darkness 
spreading  over  my  eyes  again,  and  hiding  from  me  her  reproach- 
ful face. 

"  My  friends  besought  me  to  have  recourse  to  the  oculist 
anew,  but  I  steadily  persevered  in  my  refusal,  and  joyfully  went 
back  into  blindness,  and  gradually  my  confused  brain  became 
clear  and  quiet  again. 

"  We  hoped  the  little  journey  we  are  taking  might  make 
Nanny  better,  but  unless  we  hear  tidings  from  Cyrus,  I  think 
we  shall  make  her  a  bed  by  her  father  before  long."  He 
groaned  and  covered  his  face,  as  he  finished  the  story. 

"  I  wonder  where  my  Cyrus  lived  before  he  came  to  work 
for  me  ?"  said  my  grandfather,  rising  and  stirring  the  fire. 

"  He  lived  with  Uncle  John,  and  loved  Nanny,  though  he 
never  dared  to  tell  her  so,"  answered  Cyrus,  as  he  came  for- 
ward and  grasped  the  blind  man  by  the  hand. 

He  had  come  in  in  the  middle  of  Uncle  John's  story,  and  seat- 
ing himself  quietly  in  the  corner,  had  remained  there  till  its 
conclusion,  unobserved. 

So  much  merry  noise  as  there  was  in  my  grandfather's  house 
had  never  been  heard  there  till  that  night.  I  thir.k  only  for  a 
moment  was  there  silence — when,  having  placed  the  teapot  on 
the  table,  my  grandmother  went  to  bring  Nanny  out  to 
supper. 

And  such  rosy  cheeks  were  never  seen  as  she  and  Cyrus  pre- 
sented when  they  shook  hands,  just  as  if  they  had  not  seen  and 
recognized  each  other  when  they  met  in  the  door-yard. 

What  a  pleasant  supper  we  had,  and  what  a  happy  time  we 


186  UNCLE  JOHN'S  STORY.- 

had  telling  stories  round  the  fire  afterwards,  and  what  laugh- 
ing, when  grandmother  said  she  would  give  her  spare  bed  to 
Thomas  and  Uncle  John,  for  she  was  quite  sure  Nanny  could 
sit  up  all  night,  well  enough  ! 

The  following  morning  the  sun  was  shining  brightly,  as 
Cyrus  had  predicted — the  strangers  remained  at  my  grand- 
father's all  day,  Thomas  assisting  Cyrus  to  rake  the  cornstalks 
into  heaps,  and  when  night  came,  Nanny  and  I  went  out  to 
the  field  and  helped  to  burn  them.  Why  should  I  linger  ? — 
everybody  who  has  ever  loved,  guesses  the  end  of  the  story, 
and  those  who  have  not,  will  feel  no  interest  in  hearing. 


MAKING    THE    CHILDREN    SOMETHING. 


FIVE  o'clock  in  the  great  city — a  roar  as  of  a  mighty  sea  in 
the  streets,  for  the  multitude  is  heaving  hither  and  thither  in 
pursuit  of  interest  or  pleasure.  "  Dinner-time,"  said  Mrs. 
William  Hartly,  looking  up  from  the  torn  lace  she  was  trying 
to  stitch  together,  "  and  I  have  not  seen  Annie  to-day — what 
can  the  girl  be  about  ?" 

The  door  opens,  and  a  feeble  little  man,  with  no  more  color 
in  his  face  than  is  in  his  handkerchief,  enters,  and  in  querulous 
accents  inquires,  "  What  are  you  doing,  my  dear  ?  and  why 
are  you  not  dressed  ?"  and  opening  his  watch,  he  continues — 
"  five  minutes  past  five,"  which  in  the  lady's  estimation  seems 
equivalent  to  having  said,  "  You  outrage  all  propriety  ;"  for 
she  hastily  puts  down  the  torn  lace,  and  disappears  with  an 
air  not  the  most  amiable  in  the  world. 

The  white-faced  feeble  man  walks  nervously  about  the  room 
for  some  ten  minutes,  more  or  less,  wh'en  the  lady  returns, 
"  made  up "  for  the  ceremony  of  dinner,  which  the  bell  has 
rung  for  twice  during  her  preparation. 

"  You  are  looking  very  sweetly,  my  dear  ;  and  Mr.  William 
Hartly  slips  the  ringed  fingers  of  his  stout  wife  through  his 

187 


188  MAKING   THE   CHILDREN"   SOMETHING. 

own  tiny  and  wiry  arm,  and  in  pompous  solemnity  they  descend 
together. 

"  Where  is  Pet  ?"  he  asks,  placing  a  chair  for  the  stout 
woman,  and  crooking  his  lips  into  what  is  meant  to  be  a 
smile. 

"  If  yon  mean  Annie,"  answers  the  injured  wife,  "  I  don't 
know  anything  about  her." 

"  Very  strange,  madam,"  says  Mr.  Hartly,  unfolding  his  nap- 
kin with  trembling  hands,  "  that  we  can't  even  eat  and  drink 
like  other  folks — where  is  Albert  ?"  The  wife  and  mother 
simply  shakes  her  head  this  time,  and  the  sensor  continues  : 
"  Have  you  resigned  the  government  of  your  own  household, 
madam  ?" 

And  he  goes  on  with  some  complaint  about  the  soup,  while 
the  wife,  with  eyes  bent  intently  on  the  name  of  "  Hartly," 
graven  on  her  silver  spoon,  answers,  with  no  submission  except 
in  her  words,  that  she  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  children  or 
servants  any  more,  and  that  if  her  husband  thinks  it  so  easy  a 
task  to  put  his  own  notions  into  other  people's  heads,  he  is 
welcome  to  try— she  has  tried  and  tried  till  she  is  tired,  and 
she  can't  make  anything  of  either  Albert  or  Annie,  and  she  is 
quite  willing  to  resign  the  task  to  abler  hands. 

Mr.  Hartly  bows  in  acknowledgment  of  the  compliment,  and 
says  he  will  see  what  can  be  done,  and  his  tone  has  in  it  some- 
thing of  the  authoritative  meaning  of  a  schoolmaster  ;  for  he  was 
bred  in  early  life  to  the  profession  of  one.  His  iron-grey  hair 
stands  up  with  a  more  determinate  expression,  and  his  whito 
face  grows  whiter  in  the  calmness  of  settled  resolve. 

A  lubberly,  yellow-haired  boy  of  twelve  years  old  kicks  open, 
the  door  at  this  juncture,  and  with  his  fine  and  fashionably- 


MATJTTCG  THE   CHILDBED   SOMETHING.  189 

made  clothes  soiled  and  torn,  dashes  his  cap  at  one  of  the  ser- 
vants in  waiting,  by  way  of  eliciting  attention  to  his  wants,  and 
seats  himself  at  table,  without  noticing  father  or  mother. 
"  Albert,  my  son,"  says  the  father,  "  what  has  detained  you  ? 
have  you  no  excuse  ?" 

"  Detained  myself,"  replies  the  boy,  "  and  that's  the  reason  ; 
and  besides,  I  stole  a  piece  of  molasses  cake  at  school,  and  did 
not  get  so  hungry  for  dinner  as  common." 

Mr.  Hartly  frowned  and  Mrs.  Hartly  sighed,  the  one  looking 
the  picture  of  indignation  and  the  other  of  despair. 

"  Tell  you  what,  old  folks,"  said  the  boy,  without  noticing 
the  troubled  expression  of  his  parents,  "  I'll  run  away  from 
school  if  you  make  me  go  there,  'cause  I  hate  books — there 
haiut  none  of  them  got  no  sense  in  them — and  I  hate  masters  ; 
there  never  was  a  schoolmaster  that  had  sense  :  I'm  a  going 
to  hire  out  to  a  livery-stable,  and  learn  to  nick  and  dock, 
that's  what  I'll  do  ;  and  when  I'm  sixteen  I'll  be  sot  up  in  the 
trade,  and  I'll  keep  the  fastest  trotters  in  town.  Old  folks,  do 
you  hear  that  ?" 

Both  father  and  mother  looked  as  though  they  did  hear  ;  Mrs 
Hartly  dropping  knife  and  fork,  and  limberly  falling  together 
as  if  there  were  no  more  courage  in  her,  and  Mr.  Hartly  bracing 
himself  up  as  though  about  to  be  swept  over  the  Niagara 
Falls. 

"  What's  matter  ?  Anything  in  my  composition  surprise 
you  ?" 

"  I  think  there  are  some  things  in  your  composition  that 
must  be  beaten  down  or  wrenched  out,"  said  the  father  ;  "and 
now,  sir,"  he  continued,  "  don't  open  your  mouth  again  till  I 
give  you  liberty." 


190  MAKING   THE    CHILDREN   SOMETHING. 

"  How  will  I  eat,  old  man,"  replied  the  boy,  "  if  I  am  to 
keep  my  mouth  shut  ?" 

Mr.  Ilartly  here  arose,  and  having  struck  the  broad  shoul- 
ders of  the  lad  with  his  little  delicate  hand,  led  him  away  by 
one  ear,  assuring  him  that  for  the  next  forty-eight  hours  he 
should  have  nothing  but  bread  and  water  to  eat. 

Annie,  ignorant  of  how  matters  stood,  made  her  appearance 
at  this  moment,  carrying  a  great  platter  of  steaming  pudding, 
her  flushed  face  radiant  with  smiles,  for  she  had  made  the  pud- 
ding with  her  own  hands,  and  evidently  in  the  expectation  of 
affording  her  parents  a  happy  surprise. 

No  smile  answered  hers,  however,  as  she  placed  the  pudding 
dish  on  the  table,  timidly  turning  her  eyes  from  father  to  mother. 

"  Doesn't  it  look  nice  ?"  she  ventured  to  say  at  last  ;  "  Mr. 
Wentworth  showed  me  how  to  make  it — shan't  I  ask  him  to 
come  and  eat  with  us  ?" 

"  I  think  you  look  nice,"  said  the  mother,  eyeing  the  flour  on 
Annie's  apron,  and  the  rosy  face  indicative  of  the  cookery  she  had 
been  engaged  in  ;  "  it 's  no  use,"  she  continued,  as  Annie  stood 
still  aghast,  "I  can't  make'anything  of  you,  and  I  may  just  as 
well  let  you  run  wild — go  and  live  with  Mr.  Wentworth,  and 
iearn  to  make  butter  and  cheese  ;  I  expect  that  would  suit  you 
better  than  going  to  dancing-school  and  practising  your  piano, 
as  you  ought  to  do.  Your  father  and  I  have  used  every  means 
in  our  power  to  make  something  of  you  and  your  brother — you 
have  had  money  enough  spent  on  you,  the  dear  knows,  to  make 
you  as  accomplished  as  anybody  in  the  city  ;  and  then,  to  the 
neglect  of  your  proper  duties,  you  go  in  the  kitchen  and  talk 
about  pumpkins  with  Mr.  Wentworth,  if  that  is  the  man's 
name,  and  make  puddings,  and  appear  at  the  dinner-table  with 


MAKING    THE    CHILDREN   SOMETHING.  191 

your  hair  in  that  frightfully  plain  fashion — it's  enough  to  break 
a  mother's  heart." 

Annie  answered  that  she  did  not  know  it  was  wrong  to  make 
a  pudding,  nor  to  ask  Mr.  Wentworth  to  eat  some  of  it  when 
he  was  so  good  as  to  show  her  the  way  to  make  it — and  it  was 
such  a  cheap  way. 

"  Economy  is  not  the  chief  end  and  aim  of  our  lives,  my 
dear,"  said  the  father  ;  "  there  may  be  people  to  whom  a  pound 
of  flour,  more  or  less,  makes  a  difference,  but  I  humbly  trust 
you  will  never  be  in  their  sphere  of  life  ;"  and  for  a  moment 
Mr.  Hartly  subsided,  and  seemed  to  be  saying,  "  Does  the  forty 
feet  stone  front  of  our  house  look  like  practising  economy  in 
the  making  of  a  pudding  ?  Do  the  stone  steps  and  the  stone 
baluster  look  like  it  ?  Does  the  man-servant  who  attends  the 
door-bell  look  like  it  ?  Do  the  lace  curtains,  ten  in  all,  look 
like  it  ?  Do  my  wife's  brocades  look  like  it  ?  Do  the  enter- 
tainments I  give  look  like  it,  or  anything  in  any  way  apper- 
taining to  us  ?  No,  no  ;  nobody  would  suppose  us  to  be  people 
to  economize."  And  having  thus  mentally  soliloquized,  he 
turned  to  Annie,  who  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  table  like  a  cul- 
prit. "  No,  my  dear,  no  ;  we  are  not  the  people  to  count  the 
eggs  that  go  into  a  pudding  ;"  and  having  emphasized  the  fact 
by  tapping  his  silver  fork  lightly  against  his  plate,  he  added 
"  Whom  have  you  in  the  kitchen,  and  what  is  his  occupation  ?" 

"  Why,  father,  it  is  Mr.  Wentworth — you  know  him,"  said 
Annie,  looking  a  little  encouraged. 

Mr.  Hartly  slowly  moved  his  head  from  side  to  side,  as  though 
he  said,  "  I  wash  my  hands  of  it — I  know  nothing  of  him." 

"  One  of  these  men,  yon  know,"  said  Mrs.  Hartly,  in  an  ex- 
planatory way,  "  who  make  pumpkins  and  milk,  and  cultivate 


102  MAKING   THE   CHILDREN   SOMETHING. 

butter,  and  manufacture  corn  and  cattle,  and  such  things — a 
man  that  lives  in  an  open  place,  you  know,  where  there  are 
trees,  and  where  there  are  no  streets,  you  know  ;  no  houses, 
only  wigwams,  or  bamboo  huts,  or  something  ;  you  know, 
William,  it's  the  old  person  that  brings  us  our  butter  and 
apples." 

Mrs.  Hartly  said  person,  to  indicate  that  she  did  not  know 
exactly  whether  he  were  black  or  white,  man  or  monkey.  It 
was  a  sheer  affectation  on  her  part,  for  Mrs.  Hartly  was  a 
woman  of  naturally  good  plain  common  sense,  if  she  could 
have  been  satisfied  to  let  plain  common  sense  be  plain  common 
sense,  but  she  could  not  ;  she  had  a  large  amount  of  that 
"  vaulting  ambition  which  is  apt  to  o'erleap  itself  and  fall  on 
t'other  side."  She  was  the  daughter  of  a  retired  horse-jockey, 
and  could,  in  her  youth,  drive  or  ride  the  most  unmanageable 
animal  in  her  father's  stable,  and  not  unfrequeutly  did  ride 
without  saddle  from  the  suburbs  of  the  village  where  she  lived, 
to  the  city,  half  a  dozen  miles  away,  where  she  served  appren- 
ticeship as  a  milliner,  and  afterward  herself  kept  shop.  All 
these  things  were  doubtless  forgotten,  for  they  were  long  ago, 
when  stout  Mrs.  Hartly  was  gawky  Debby  Smith,  and  before 
her  nature  was  smothered  and  lost  in  affectations.  Somewhere 
about  the  same  time,  Mr.  William  Hartly,  the  present  opulent 
merchant,  was  a  country  schoolmaster,  near  the  village  of  the 
milliner,  carrying  his  candle  to  the  log  school-house  for  the 
evening  meeting,  and  paying  board  by  working  in  the  garden 
of  nights  and  mornings.  In  the  course  of  time  it  came  about 
that  Debby  Smith  was  employed  by  the  schoolmaster,  afore- 
said, to  make  shirts — for  plain  needle-work  entered  into  the 
young  woman's  accomplishments — and  from  these  beginnings 


MAKING   THE    CHILDREN    SOMETHING.  193 

had  come  the  present  wealthy  merchant,  the  stone-fronted 
house  and  all  the  appurtenances  thereof,  the  pompous  Mrs. 
Hartly,  the  young  woman  Annie,  and  the  hopeful  Master 
Albert. 

There  had  been  no  sudden  influx  of  wealth,  such  as  often 
turns  the  heads  of  silly  people — all  had  been  the  growth  of 
years  of  steady  industry  and  economy,  attended  with  constant 
good  luck.  And  with  the  wealth,  affectations  had  grown,  for 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Uartly  were  under  the  impression  that  their  pre- 
sent position  demanded  it — it  was  a  duty  they  owed  to  the 
world  at  large,  in  view  of  the  stone  front,  the  man-servant,  the 
rosewood  furniture,  and  the  inheritors  of  their  great  fortune, 
Annie  and  Albert ;  the  first  a  most  active,  good-tempered 
young  woman,  but  plain,  and  "without  hope  of  change  ;"  the 
latter  a  coarse,  vulgar  lad,  on  whom  no  refinement  could  be  in- 
grafted, and  whose  natural  abhorrence  of  books  and  love  of 
horses  were  not  likely  to  be  easily  overcome. 

So  there  they  were  together  in  their  fine  house,  being  sup- 
posed to  be  dining  at  five  o'clock,  easily  and  elegantly,  having 
taken  luncheon  at  twelve,  and  with  tea  and  supper  to  be  served 
in  due  and  proper  course  of  time — supposed  to  be,  I  say,  for 
the  luncheon,  and  the  supper,  and  the  tea,  were  all  myths  ;  the 
luncheon,  when  traced  to  its  reality,  consisting  chiefly  of  bread 
crusts,  strong  butter,  scraps  of  meat,  and  the  like,  kept  in  the 
closet,  and  resorted  to  from  time  to  time  by  such  members  of 
the  family  as  were  about  the  house,  and  felt  the  demands  of 
appetite  too  importunate  to  be  refused  till  the  regular  dinner 
hour.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hartly  had  done  well  for  themselves,  as 
they  believed — all  they  could  do  ;  they  wore  good  clothes,  and 
used  what  they  thought  good  words  ;  they  affected  high  breed- 

9 


194  MAKING   THE    CIIILDKICX    SOMETHING. 

ing,  and  believed  in  their  hearts  that  the  pretence  was  the  pos- 
session— paste  was  not  less  genuine  to  them  than  diamonds- 
Mr.  Hartly  had  worn  himself  thin  and  pale  ;  had,  in  fact, 
coined  his  life-blood  into  money  and  the  effort  to  be  genteel. 
Mrs,  Hartly  had,  as  she  supposed,  expanded  easily  to  a  model 
of  dignity  and  deportment ;  but  she  saw  not  herself  as  others 
saw  her — she  was,  in  fact,  in  her  best  phases,  a  big  woman 
with  fine  clothes  on.  Her  misfortune  was,  that  nothing  would 
fit  her  ;  rings  and  ear-rings  seemed  hung  on  ;  dresses  seemed 
pinned  on  and  hooked  on,  but  not  to  have  been  especially  made 
for  her,  or  in  the  least  becoming  to  her  ;  they  might  have  be- 
longed to  Mrs.  Lundy,  or  any  other  woman  who  had  money 
enough  to  buy  them  ;  she  was  a  personage  on  whom  all  these 
things  were  hung,  and  when  she  wore  a  velvet  train,  she  was 
simply  a  big  woman  with  a  velvet  train,  and  she  was  nothing 
more. 

Whether  she  improved  her  broad  flat  face  in  any  very  great 
degree  by  the  little  curls  she  was  at  infinite  pains  to  twist 
along  either  temple  was  questionable  to  everybody  but  herself ; 
and  whether  the  powder  which  she  deposited  among  the  pim- 
ples of  her  face  was  not  calculated  to  call  attention  to  her 
sorry  complexion,  was  also  questionable  ;  but  these  were  Mrs. 
Hartly's  taste,  and  in  some  sort  the  necessities  of  her  station, 
she  thought.  They  had  taught  themselves  divers  little  forms 
and  ceremonies,  in  the  use  of  which  they  were  most  punctilious, 
and  a  dozen  times  a  day  Mrs.  Hartly  sent  her  compliments  to 
Mr.  Hartly,  with  some  sweet  and  lady-like  inquiry  as  to  his 
health,  or  wishes  with  reference  to  what  dress  she  should  ap- 
pear in  at  dinner,  and^as  often  Mr.  Hartly  sent  back  his  com- 
pliments, from  the  garret  where  he  was  putting  in  a  pane  of 


MAKING   THE   CHILDREN   SOMETHING.  195 

glass,  or  the  cellar  where  he  was  sawing  wood,  as  the  case 
might  be,  begging  that  Mrs.  Hartly  would  oblige  him  by  wear- 
ing the  blue  dress,  or  the  green  one,  and  he  often  topped  these 
princely  messages  by  a  request  that  Mrs.  Hartly,  if  she  could 
make  it  consistent  with  her  previous  engagements,  would  do 
him  the  favor  to  accompany  him  on  a  visit  to  the  house  of 
general,  or  governor  so-and-so.      The  Hartlies   liked  to  hear 
themselves  sending  these  messages  ;  it  had  a  lofty  look  in  their 
eyes  to  appear  to  know  little  about  each  other's  affairs  ;  their 
house  was  so  big,  and  the  duties  of  their  station  so  multifarious  ; 
their  suits  of  apartments  so  vast  and  separate,  that  they  could 
not  be  expected  to  know  much  of  each  other's  movements. 
These  affectations  were  all  that  was  left  of  them  ;  as  the  moss 
grows  over  a  dead  tree,  so  they  were  overgrown  by  them. 
Thus  they  stood,  ornaments  of  their  age  and  generation,  in 
their  own  estimation — shams,  to  other  people.     If  by  any  means 
the  children  could  have  been  screwed  up,  or  pinched  down  ; 
stretched   or  flattened  to  genteel  proportions,  it  would   have 
been  done — but  alack  !  they  had  been  put  through  the  artistic 
mills  in  vain — they  would  not  be  made  anything  of. 

This  conviction,  forced  home  upon  Mrs.  Hartly  to-day,  re- 
duced her  to  the  ill-natured  and  somewhat  natural  demeanor, 
of  which  she  was  grown  mortally  ashamed,  and  which  she 
essayed  to  cancel  by  the  double  distilled  affectation  about 
cheese  and  butter.  And  to  the  close  of  this  exquisite  mani- 
festation of  ignorance  we  return. 

"  A  decent  sort  of  person,  I  suppose,"  said  Mr.  Hartly,  in  the 
benevolent  supposition  that  it  is  barely  possible,  and  he  is  in- 
clined to  hope  for  the  best. 

"  Oh,  he  seems  such  a  good  old  man,  and  he  has  got  on 


190  MAKING   TUB    CHILDREN    SOMETHING. 

such  a  nice  coat  that  he  says  his  wife  spun  !"  exclaimed  Annie, 
in  ecstasy  at  the  kindly  disposition  of  her  father. 

"How  foolish  you  are,  Petty  I"  said  Mrs.  Hartly,in  a  kind  of 
softened  and  polite  scorn  ;  and  she  added,  in  a  sweet  pouting 
style,  "  I  would  not  have  a  big  ugly  wheel  in  my  house,  they 
make  a  noise  like  one  of  these  great  winnow  things  that  coun- 
trymen have  to  put  their  chaff  through.  My  grandfather 
told  me  about  one  once.  I  never  saw  one.  I  would  not  look 
at  it." 

All  this  time  Mr.  Hartly  has  been  sitting  with  knitted  brows, 
and  twitching  almost  with  the  culmination  of  some  most  impor- 
tant matter.  At  length  he  says  :  "  Annie,  my  daughter,  I  am 
resolved  to  send  you  to  the  wilderness  with  this  old  man  as  you 
call  him,  and  keep  you  there  too,  till  you  will  be  glad  to  come 
back  to  civilized  life."  Annie  bites  her  red  lips  together,  try- 
ing to  look  demure  ;  but  a  smile  breaks  out  in  her  face  that  is 
brighter  than  was  ever  there  before. 

Mrs.  Hartly  lifts  up  her  hands  and  looks  heavenward,  as 
though  incredulous  of  her  mortal  understanding.  "  I  am 
determined,"  continues  Mr  Hartly,  "  that  in  some  way  I  will 
make  something  of  my  children.  I  have  used  bribes,  and  now 
I  shall  use  punishments.  I  have  spent  thousands  of  dollars  to 
accomplish  my  children,  and  what  good  has  it  done  ?"  He 
broke  off  abruptly,  and  sent  his  compliments  to  Master  Albert, 
with  a  request  that  he  would  drink  a  glass  of  wine  with  him. 

The  lad  sent  no  message  in  return  ;  but  with  cap  pulled 
down  over  his  red  eyes,  and  lips  puffed  out  with  anger,  thrust 
his  sister  aside,  and  commenced  eating  the  pudding  with  a 
table  spoon.  "  Don't,  my  dear,  don't,"  said  the  mamma  softly  ; 
"  I  am  afraid  that  odd-looking  dish  won't  agree  with  you." 


MAKIXG   THE   CHILDREN   SOMETHING.  197 

"  If  you  think  this  kind  of  stuff  is  going  to  hurt  you"  re- 
plied the  boy,  "  I  am  glad  of  it — cause  I  could  eat  a 
bushel." 

"  Mother,  shan't  I  give  you  some  ?"  asked  Annie,  looking 
proudly  at  her  pudding. 

"  Petty,  you  speak  so  loud — it's  vulgar,"  said  the  mamma  ; 
and  she  send?  a  servant  to  the  other  end  of  the  table  with  her 
compliments,  and  the  reply  that  she  will  trouble  her  daughter 
to  be  so  good  as  to  send  her  part  of  a  spoonful.  And  having 
received,  she  cuts  it  apart,  and  dips  it  up  and  down  in  order  to 
see  whether  it  is  made  of  anything  of  which  she  has  any 
knowledge,  concluding,  as  it  appears,  that  she  has  not 
— for  she  tastes  not,  and  presently  ceases  to  touch  and  to 
handle. 

"  My  son,"  said  Mr.  Hartly,  lifting  his  glass. 

"  I  see  you,"  answers  the  hopeful  ;  "  and  when  I  finish  this 
pooden,  I'll  drink  a  bottle  or  two  ;  haint  got  my  appetite 
squinched  yet,  and  come  to  my  drinkotite.  I  was  at  confession, 
you  know." 

For  a  while  Mr.  Hartly's  head  falls,  as  if  a  hammer  struck 
him  ;  there  is  no  doubt  but  that  his  suffering  is  sincere.  At 
length  he  says,  in  subdued  and  sorrowful  accents  :  "  Albert,  it 
has  been  the  aim  and  the  hope  of  my  life  to  make  something 
of  you,  and  now  the  time  has  come  that  you  must  choose  a  pro- 
fession, or  rather  begin  one  ;  for  I  am  resolved  to  make  a  pain- 
ter of  you.  I  shall  send  you  to  Florence  at  once,  to  study  the 
old  masters." 

"I've  studied  you,  haint  I  T'  replies  Albert;"!  saw  you 
paint  the  kitchen  floor,  and  I  didn't  learn  nothing  as  I  .know 
of."  •  » 


198  MAKING   THE   CHILDREN   SOMETHING. 

"  I  don't  mean  to  paint  houses,  my  son  ;  you  misapprehend — 
I  intend  you  shall  make  great  pictures." 

"Well  then,  say  what  you  mean,  and  don't  go  to  sticking  on 
airs,  and  I'll  tell  you  what  trade  I  want  to  go  to.  I  want  to 
be  sot  up  in  a  stable — and  you  can  fork  out  the  cash  as  soon  as 
you  like." 

"  Why,  baby  dear,"  says  the  mother,  "  you  are  just  in  fun — 
a  real  live  horse  would  scare  you  to  death." 

"  Scare  your  granny  !"  replies  the  baby  ;  "just  as  if  I  didn't 
run  away  from  school  every  day,  and  curry  horses  and  such 
things,  in  the  stables.  You  don't  know  me,  do  you  ?"  And 
with  such  a  saucy,  impudent  look,  as  can't  be  described,  he  goes 
on  with  the  pudding. 

Mrs.  Hartly  sends  her  compliments  to  Mr.  Hartly,  with  the 
suggestion  that  they  make  a  poet  of  the  hopeful  ;  and  Mr. 
Hartly  sends  compliments  in  turn,  though  only  the  table 
divides  them,  and  begs  that  Mrs.  Hartly  will  consider  the 
matter  settled — the  hopeful  must  be  an  artist,  which  is 
responded  to  by  a  whisper  of — "Just  as  you  please,  my 
dear." 

This,  then,  being  concluded,  the  person  whom  Annie  had 
so  audaciously  called  an  old  man,  and  who,  whatever  he  may 
be,  is  supposed  to  answer  to  the  name  of  Wentworth,  is  sum- 
moned by  his  great  patrons,  and  promptly  answers  the  call  ; 
not  humbly  and  deferentially,  but  with  a  firm  step,  and  a  man- 
ner of  self-respect  that  commands  respect. 

Mr.  Hartly  waves  him  to  a  seat  in  a  distant  part  of  the 
room,  and  proceeds  to  inform  him  that  he  desires  the  girl  who 
has  just  made  his  acquaintance  in  the  kitchen,  to  be  banished 
to  his  residence,  wherever  that  may  be,  and  kept  there  on 


MAKING   THE    CHILDREN    SOMETHING.  199 

bread  and  water,  or  whatever  else  the  person  may  be  in  the 
habit  of  eating  himself,  till  she  shall  be  willing  to  return  home, 
and  appreciate  her  advantages.  Annie  sits  down  on  a  stool 
close  by  the  old  man,  and  rubs  the  flour  from  her  apron  by 
way  of  keeping  down  her  disposition  to  laughter  ;  and  tJie  per- 
son replies  that  he  hopes  to  give  his  visitor  something  better 
than  bread  and  water,  though  the  accommodations  of  his  house 
will  be  far  short  of  what  she  is  used  to. 

Mr.  Hartly  replies  that  it  is  not  as  a  visitor  that  he 
proposes  to  send  his  child,  but  as  a  boarder,  or  rather  a  pris- 
oner. 

Mr.  "Wentworth  smiles,  and  says  his  folks  have  never  takeii 
boarders  or  prisoners,  but  he  is  sure  they  will  not  object  to 
receive  his  little  friend,  for  a  time.  She  looks  as  if  she  might 
make  bread  or  butter  with  the  smartest  young  women  he 
knows  ;  and  he  smiles  and  lays  his  toil-hardened  hand  on  An- 
nie's head  as  the  finishing  of  his  compliment. 

Mrs.  Hartly  begins  a  little  scream,  which  she  concludes  by 
whispering  in  the  white  ear  of  her  white-faced  husband,  that 
she  supposes  the  person  don't  know  our  child  from  any  common 
child  and  so  the  affair  is  negotiated. 

While  Annie  is  being  denuded  of  ear-rings  and  breast-pins, 
and  all  other  ornaments,  and  having  laces,  and  flounces,  and 
furbelows  packed  away  for  the  uses  of  the  genteel  time  that  is 
to  come  after  her  banishment — and  such  plain  ginghams,  cali- 
coes, aprons,  and  the  like,  as  are  thought  suited  to  the  term  of 
her  imprisonment,  made  ready — Mr.  Hartly,  who  is  unwilling 
that  even  the  person,  old  man,  farmer,  or  whatever  he  may  be, 
should  remain  ignorant  of  his  great  consideration,  asks  con- 
descendingly, whether  he  has  ever  seen  so  fine  a  house  before. 


200  MAKING  THE   CHILDREN   SOMETHING. 

The  old  man,  who  seems  in  no  way  overcome  with  tlie  gran- 
deur about  him,  answers  that  it  seems  to  be  a  good  house  ;  but 
that,  for  his  part,  he  prefers  his  own  little  farm  and  house.  It 
may  be  very  fine,  he  thinks,  but  he  doesn't  want  it. 

"  Good  heavens  !"  exclaims  Mr.  Hartly  ;  "  you  ain't  in  your 
right  mind,  are  you  ?  have  you  seen  what  my  house  is  ?  have 
you  scon  the  stone  front,  the  balustrade  ?  Why  sir,  the  win- 
dow-curtains cost  me  five  hundred  dollars  each — more  than  all 
you  are  worth  in  the  world,  I  expect." 

The  old  man  says,  it  may  be  so  ;  still  he  seems  disposed  to 
regard  his  own  possessions  as  preferable. 

Mr.  Hartly  confronts  him  as  he  sits  quietly  contemplating 
the  carving  of  the  marble  mantel — thrusts  his  thin  white  fin- 
gers through  his  iron-grey  hair,  sets  his  teeth  together,  and 
sucks  in  a  long  breath,  and  then  as  though  the  countryman 
were  an  idiot  that  he  would  make  see  if  there  were  any  eyes  in 
him,  he  takes  him  by  the  hand,  and  leads  him  up  the  broad 
flights  of  stairs,  and  through  all  the  rooms  with  their  splendid 
appointments  ;  however,  the  old  man  sees  nothing  but  things 
that  have  cost  money.  It  is  all  very  well,  he  says,  for  people 
that  like  it ;  but,  for  his  part,  he  would  not  have  the  trouble  of 
taking  care  of  so  many  things,  even  if  they  were  given  to 
him. 

In  the  great  easy-chair  of  the  parlor  Mr.  Hartly  sinks  down 
exhausted,  and  locking  his  little  white  fingers  together,  repeats  to 
himself :  "  Well,  well,  well  !"  each  time  a  little  louder,  and  as 
though  nothing  could  be  said  of  such  stupidity.  Meontime  the 
farmer  makes  his  wo.y  out  into  the  sunshine,  seeming  to  find 
that  more  genial  than  the  heavy,  damp  air  within  the  thick 
walls.  The  stout  horses,  having  eaten  their  dinner  of  oats,  are 


MAKIXG   THE    CHILDBED   SOMETHING.  201 

ready  to  go  home,  and  the  coverlet  is  spread  over  the  straw  that 
fills  the  wagon-bed,  for  the  accommodation  of  Annie,  who  pre- 
sently makes  her  appearance  and  tells  her  friend  that  her  father 
wishes  to  speak  to  him. 

"  Old  person,"  says  Mr.  Hartly,  as  though  it  were  not  likely 
the  man  had  a  name,  "  I  consign  my  daughter  to  your  charge 
for  a  certain  time,  and  for  reasons  that  to  me  are  greater  than 
you  can  comprehend  ;  and  I  wish  you  to  receive  an  equivalent, 
that  is  pay,  for  the  trouble  she  may  give  you — what  sum  shall 
you  accept  ?  Not  that  it  makes  any  difference  to  me — money 
is  to  me  no  object." 

These  are  not  precisely  his  words,  to  be  sure  ;  but  both 
manner  and  words  indicate,  or  are  meant  to  indicate,  that  he 
has  had  money  till  he  is  tired  of  money.  However,  it  is  finally 
o.rranged  that  Annie  shall  work  for  her  board  for  her  own  pun- 
ishment merely,  and  not  to  save  a  few  sixpences,  more  or  less. 
She  is  also  required  to  keep  a  journal  of  her  exile  life,  and  once 
a  week  submit  the  same  to  her  very  loving  parents,  which  letter- 
writing  is  supposed,  on  their  part,  to  pave  the  way  to  mak- 
ing her  a  famous  author.  And  she  is  informed,  that  when 
she  shall  find  herself  willing  to  come  home,  and  wear  silks  and 
laces,  and  learn  dancing  and  music,  keep  out  of  the  kitchen, 
and,  in  short,  be  made  something  of,  she  shall  return.  She  is 
furthermore  bidden  to  take  an  affectionate  leave  of  Master 
Albert,  who,  she  is  informed,  is  to  be  sent  immediately  to 
Florence  to  be  made  into  a  painter.  Miss  Annie  essays  an 
embrace,  but  the  hopeful  twists  out  of  her  arms,  and  with  a 
rude  push  informs  her  that  he  means  to  run  away  and  be  a 
horse-jockey,  for  that  the  old  folks  can't  make  him  over  into 
anything  that  he  aint. 


202  MAKING    THE   CHILDBED   SOMETHING. 

"  That  has  been  my  notion  pretty  much,"  said  the  old  man  ; 
•'I  have  always  thought  it  was  best  to  let  natur'  have  its 
way  ;  and  Joshua,  that's  my  eldest  son,  has  made  a  preacher  ; 
and  Cliff,  who  is  sturdy  and  stout,  and  full  of  fun,  has  staid 
on  the  farm  with  me.  It  seems  to  come  natural  to  him  to  work, 
somehow." 

Mr.  Hartly  looks  pityingly  on  the  old  person's  ignorance  ;  and 
abruptly  turning  away,  offers  his  arm  to  dear  Mrs.  Hartly,  and 
with  one  or  two  affected  little  sobs,  she  is  led  off. 

I  will  pass  over  all  the  preparation  made  for  the  departure  of 
Master  Albert,  nor  trouble  the  reader  with  an  account  of  Mrs 
Hartly's  protracted  darnings  of  lace,  and  hemming,  scalloping 
and  fringing,  crimping  and  curling — all  the  hanging  on,  and 
the  taking  off  of  fine  things — all  the  powdering,  and  the  comb- 
ing of  her  poodle — and  likewise  pass  by  all  Mr.  Hartly's 
examinations  into  the  quantities  of  meat  cooked  for  dinner,  all 
his  parcellings  out  of  beans  and  potatoes,  all  his  contemplative 
pacings  up  and  down  before  his  own  house,  in  happy  admiration 
of  the  extent  thereof — all  compliments  sent  back  and  forth  for 
the  space  of  eight  days,  when  I  must  beg  the  reader  to  imagine 
him  in  his  great  chair — spectacles  shoved  up  over  his  hair — a 
sealed  paper  lying  before  him  on  the  table  ;  and  also  to  imagine 
the  transport  with  unusual  form  and  dignity,  to  Master  Hartly 
of  his  compliments,  begging  that  he  will  oblige  his  father  by  his 
immediate  presence — also  of  a  similar  message  to  Mrs.  Hartly, 
with  fear  that  she  may  be  detained  by  the  general  pressure  of 
her  position. 

The  simple  fact  is,  a  letter  has  been  received  from  Annie, 
which  is  about  to  be  read.  That  it  is  a  sort  of  humiliation  and 
prayer  to  be  permitted  to  return  home,  is  expected  ;  and 


MAKING   THE    CHILDREN    SOMETHING.  203 

that  the  effect  on  the  hopeful  may  be  salutary,  is  believed — 
but  be,  failing  to  make  his  appearance,  the  reading  goes  on. 
The  letter  was  as  follows  : 

"  DEAR  FATHER  AXD  MOTHER  : 

"  I  have  so  many  things  to  say,  and  am  so  little  used  to 
writing,  that  I  don't  know  how  to  begin  ;  but  as  I  promised  to 
keep  a  sort  of  journal  of  every  day's  experience,  I  suppose  I 
may  as  well  begin  now,  for  this  is  the  second  night  of  my  being 
here.     You  can't  imagine  what  a  nice  ride  we  had  in  the  open 
wagon,  so  much  pleasanter  than  being  shut  up  in  a  coach — it 
was  such  a  pleasure  to  see  the.  stout  horses  pull  us  along,  and 
trotting  or  walking  just  as  Uncle  Wentworth  directed  :  I  say 
nncle,  because  I  like  Mr.  Wentworth,  and  wish  all  the  time  he 
was  some  true  relation.     The  straw  in  the  wagon  smelled  so 
sweet,  sweeter  than  flowers,  it  seemed  to  me  ;  and  when  we  got 
into  the  real  country  everything   looked   so   beautiful,  that  I 
laughed  all  the  time,  and  Uncle  Wentworth  said  folks  would 
think  he  had  a  crazy  girl.     I  was  very  much  ashamed  of  my 
ignorance,  for  I  thought  all  country  people  lived  in  holes  in  the 
ground,  or  little  huts  made  of  sticks,  and  that  cows  and  horses 
and  all  lived  together ;    but  we  saw  all  along  the  road  such 
pretty  cottages  and  gardens,  and  some  houses  indeed  as  fine  as 
ours.     I  kept  asking  Uncle  Wentworth  what  sort  of  place  we 
were  going  to,  for  I  could  not  help  fearing  it  was  a  very  bad 
place  ;  but  he  only  laughed,  and  told  me  to  wait  and  see.     A 
good  many  men  were  at  work  in  fields  of  hay — some  cutting 
and  some  tossing  it  about— and  I  kept  wishing  I  was  among 
them,  they  seemed  so  merry,  and  the  hay  was  so  sweet.     In 
some  places  were  great  fields  of  corn,  high  as  my  head,  with 


204  MAKING   THE   CHILDREN   SOMETHING. 

grey  tassels  on  the  tops  of  it.     I  thought  men  were  at  work 

there  too,  it  shook  so  ;  but  Uncle  Wentworth  said  it  was  only 

the  wind.     And  back  of  the  fields,  and  seeming  like  a,  great 

green  wall  between  the  earth  and  the  sky,  stood  the  woods.     I 

mean  to  go  into  them  before  long,  but  I  am  a  little  afraid  of 

wild  beasts  yet  ;  though  uncle  says  I  will  find  no  worse  thing 

than  myself  there.    We  met  a  good   many  carriages,  full  of 

gayly  dressed  people  coming  into  town ;  and  saw  a  number  of 

young  ladies  dressed  in  bright  ginghams,  tending  the  flowers  in 

front  of  the  cottages,  sometimes  at  work  in  the  gardens,  indeed, 

so  my  dresses  will  be  right  in  the  fashion.     In  one  place  we 

passed  a  white  school-house,  set  right  in  the  edge  of  the  woods  ; 

and  when  we  were  a  little  by,  out  came  near  forty  children, 

some  girls  as  big  as  I,  and  a  whole  troop  of  little  boys,  all 

laughing,  and  jumping,  and  frolicking,  as  I  never  heard  children 

laugh.     I  asked  Uncle  Wentworth  if  it  were  proper 1  and  he 

said  it  was  their  nature,  and  he  supposed  our  wise  Father  had 

made  them  right.     Some  of  the  boys  ran  and  caught  hold  of 

the  tail  of  our  wagon  and  held  there,  half  swinging  and  half 

riding,  ever  so  long.     Pretty  soon  uncle  stopped  the  horses,  and 

asked  a  slim,  pale-faced-  girl,  who  was  studying  her  book  as  she 

walked  to  ride  ;  and  thanking  him  as  politely  as  anybody  could 

do,  she  climbed  up,  right  behind  the  horses,  and  sat  down  by 

me,  and  spoke  the  same  as  though  she  had   been  presented. 

She  had  a  sweet  face  under  a  blue  bonnet,  but  was  as  white, 

and  looked  as  frail,  as  a  lily.     After  she  was  seated,  she  looked 

back  so  earnestly,  that  I  looked  too,  and  saw  the  schoolmaster 

come  out  of  the  house  and  lock  the  door,  and  cross  his  hands 

behind  him  as  he  turned  into  a  lane  that  ran  by,  which  seemed 

to  go  up  and  up,  green  and  shady  as  far  as  I  could  see.     I 


MAKING  THE    CHILDREN   SOMETHING.  205 

could  only  see  that  his  cheeks  were' red,  and  that  he  had  curls 
under  his  straw  hat.  The  girl  kept  looking  the  way  he  went  ; 
but  if  it  were  he  she  thought  of,  he  didn't  turn  to  look  at  her. 
Close  by  a  stone-arched  bridge,  from  under  which  a  dozen  birds 
flew  as  we  rattled  over  it,  Uncle  Wentworth  stopped  the  horses, 
and  the  young  lady  got  out,  and  went  through  a  gate  at 
the  roadside  ;  and  I  watched  her  walking  in  a  narrow  and  deep- 
worn  path  that  was  close  by  the  bank  of  a  run,  till  she  turned 
round  a  hill,  and  I  could  not  see  her  any  more  ;  but  I  saw  a 
lively  blue  smoke,  curling  up  over  the  hill-top,  and  in  the  hollow 
behind,  Uncle  Weutworth  said  she  lived. 

"  We  were  now  eight  miles  from  the  city — the  sun  was 
almost  down  ;  we  saw  great  droves  of  cows  coming  towards  the 
milk-yards — not  driven  as  they  are  in  the  streets,  but  coming 
of  themselves,  and  flocks  of  geese  waddling  out  of  ponds,  and 
going  towards  home  ;  I  began  to  feel  a  little  tired,  and  sleepy, 
with  the  motion  of  the  wagon,  when  all  at  once  the  horses 
began  to  neigh  and  trot  fast,  and  Uncle  Wentworth  said, 
'  Here's  your  prison,  Annie  ;  how  do  you  like  the  looks  of  it  ?' 
We  were  right  before  a  white  gate  that  was  being  opened  by  a 
black  man,  who  was  smiling  so  as  to  show  all  his  teeth,  and 
who  bowed  twice  to  us  as  we  drove  through  and  along  a 
gravelly  narrow  lane  towards  a  barn  as  large  as  our  house.  I 
could  hardly  think  it  the  place  where  I  was  to  stay,  at  first — 
all  was  so  beautiful.  The  house  itself  is  really  as  good  as  our 
house,  built  of  stone — blue  hard  stone — better  than  is  in  ours  ; 
and  on  every  side  of  it  is  a  white  porch,  curtained  with  green 
vines,  some  bearing  red,  and  others  blue  flowers.  About  the 
house  is  a  large  yard  inclosed  by  white  pickets,  against  which 
is  a  perfect  thicket  of  currant-bushes,  raspberries  and  roses.  It 


206  MAKING   THE    CIIILDKEN   SOMETHING. 

is  like  an  orchard,  all  about,  with  cherry,  and  apple,  and 
quince,  and  peach-trees — the  latter  sticking  full  of  little  green 
peaches,  and  some  of  the  apples  turning  red  and  yellow. 
There  were  flowers  of  all  colors  growing  here  and  there  ;  and 
while  I  sat  in  mute  surprise,  a  huge  dog  lifted  himself  up  on  the 
wheel  of  the  wagon,  and  frightened  me  so,  that  I  almost  cried, 
though  he  neither  barked  nor  growled.  Uncle  Wentworth 
said  he  was  only  saying  'How  do  you  do?'  And,  indeed,  it 
seemed  as  if  that  was  what  he  meant  ;  for  as  I  went  towards  the 
house,  he  walked  along  by  me  very  quietly.  A  middle-aged 
woman  came  to  the  door  to  meet  us  ;  she  was  wiping  her  hands 
on  a  towel,  and  by  her  heightened  color  and  the  speck  of  flour 
on  her  apron,  I  saw  she  had  been  at  work  in  the  kitchen.  She 
shook  hands  with  me  as  though  I  were  some  friend,  when 
Uncle  AVentworth  said  who  I  was,  and  went  with  me  herself 
to  the  tidiest  little  bedroom  you  ever  saw,  telling  me,  just  as 
though  she  had  been  my  mother,  to  put  all  my  tbkigs  away 
neatly,  showing  me  where  ;  and  when  I  had  done  so,  to  come  to 
her  in  the  kitchen.  There  was  no  carpet  on  the  floor,  which 
was  very  white,  and  the  bed-spread  and  the  curtains  were 
white  too.  I  had  my  dresses  hung  up  and  my  other  things  in 
the  bureau  very  soon,  and  hearing  some  one  speaking  in  the 
yard,  I  raised  the  window,  and  saw  coming  down  the  straight 
walk,  which  was  carpeted  with  tan-bark,  Uncle  Wentworth, 
and  a  young  man  with  a  scythe  swung  over  his  shoulder  He 
had  on  a  bread-brimmed  straw  hat,  grey  trowsers,  and  a 
shirt  of  white  and  blue  calico  fastened  about  the  waist  with  a 
leather  strap.  I  drew  my  head  in  a  little  when  I  saw  him,  but 
not  till  Uncle  Wentworth  had  spied  me,  and  calling  out  aloud, 
(for  I  was  up  stairs),  he  said,  '  Annie,  this  is  my  boy,  Cliff— 


MAKING   THE    CHILDREN    SOMETHING.  207 

you  must  go  out  and  help  him  mow  to-morrow.'  It  was  such 
a  funny  introduction,  that  I  felt  my  face  all  burning  red  as  I 
tried  to  answer  the  polite  salutation  of  the  young  man,  for  he 
took  the  straw  hat  quite  off,  and  bowed  so  low,  that  his  brown 
curls  fell  along  his  forehead,  and  made  him  look  just  like  a  picture. 
"  I  now  began  to  consider  my  dress,  for  it  was  full  of 
wrinkles  with  sitting  on  the  straw,  and  riding  so  far,  and  look- 
ing in  the  glass  that  hung  over  the  bureau,  I  found  my  face 
was  white  with  dust.  There  was  no  water  in  the  room  ;  so  I 
went  down,  and  finding  Mrs.  Wentwortb,  whom  I  call  Aunt 
Margaret  now,  taking  biscuits  out  of  the  stove,  I  asked  her  for 
water,  and  she  directed  me  to  a  shed  outside  the  door,  where 
there  was  a  cistern,  and  all  conveniences  for  washing.  I 
was  quick,  you  may  be  sure  ;  for  I  feared  Cliff,  whom  I 
heard  talking  to  his  dog  on  the  other  side  of  the  house,  might 
come  round  and  see  me  ;  and  as  I  went  towards  my  room  tc 
put  on  a  smooth  dress,  Aunt  Margaret  patted  my  cheek  and 
told  me  I  must  be  very  smart,  for  that  supper  was  all  ready. 
I  told  her  not  to  wait — that  I  would  come  presently  ;  and  I 
did  try  to,  but  everything  went  wrong — the  books  were  off 
from  one  dress,  and  another  fitted  so  ill,  and  then  my  hair 
never  looked  so  badly  ;  it  was  nearly  dark  in  my  room,  and  I 
had  no  light,  so  that  altogether  I  was  vexed  and  flurried  a 
good  deal  when  I  went  down.  Aunt  Margaret  had.  taken  me 
at  ray  word,  and  Uncle  Wentworth  and  Cliff  were  already  gone 
away  from  the  table  ;  they  had  their  evening  work  to  do,  she 
said,  and  would  not  stand  upon  ceremony.  She  had  kept  some 
tea  and  biscuits  warm  for  me,  and  I  ate  heartily,  for  the  ride 
had  made  me  hungry.  While  we  were  yet  at  the  table,  the 
black  man  who  opened  the  gate,  and  whose  name  is  Peter,  and 


208  MAKING   THE    CHILDREN   SOMETHING. 

a  yellow  woman,  called  Maria,  who  is  his  wife,  passed  along 
the  porch,  carrying  four  tin  pails  full  of  milk,  and  Aunt  Marga- 
ret said  I  might  have  a  bowl  of  it,  which  I  accepted,  and 
found  sweeter  than  any  milk  I  ever  drank.  I  found  Peter  and 
Maria  very  nice  and  kind,  and  while  they  took  their  supper  I 
staid  by  and  talked  with  them,  which  seemed  to  please  them 
very  much.  Peter  offered  to  make  a  swing  for  me,  to  show  me 
about  the  barn,  to  teach  me  to  milk,  and  many  other  things  ; 
and  Maria  said  she  would  make  me  as  good  a  cook  as  herself, 
when  I  told  her  about  the  pudding  I  had  made.  Aunt  Marga- 
ret came  into  the  kitchen,  and  as  Maria  washed  the  dishes, 
dried  them  on  a  towel,  and  helped  about  almost  everything. 
Coffee  was  ground  for  breakfast,  and  short-cakes  made,  and 
all  the  parcels  which  Uncle  Wentworth  had  brought  from 
town  wers  put  each  in  its  place,  sugar  and  spice  and  dried 
beef,  and  I  don't  know  what  all.  Among  the  rest,  or  rather 
above  the  rest,  was  one  paper  carefully  pinned  up,  at  which 
Maria  and  Aunt  Margaret  wondered  not  a  little,  and  opening 
it  they  found  it  to  contain  the  neatest  little  cap  that  ever  was 
— it  had  no  flowers  on  it  nor  ribbon,  except  the  strings,  but  it 
was  real  lace,  and  prettier,  I  thought,  than  ma's  gay  caps. 
Maria  lighted  another  ca'ndle  to  look  at  it,  and  doubled  her- 
self together  with  laughter,  she  was  so  pleased,  and  Aunt 
Margaret  said  it  was  just  like  Uncle  Wentworth,  he  was 
always  buying  things  she  didn't  send  for,  and  that  she  would 
rather  he  had  bought  a  new  hat  for  himself.  She  is  a,  good 
woman,  and  I  loved  her  the  more  when  she  said  so.  Maria 
would  make  her  try  it  on,  and  she  and  I  thought  it  becoming  ; 
but  Aunt  Margaret  says  she  thinks  it  a  little  too  small — though 
she  would  not  say  so  to  Uncle  Weiitworth  for  anything. 


MAKING   THE   CHILDREN    SOMETHING.  209 

"  He  and  Cliff  had  taken  some  chairs  out  beneath  a  cherry 
tree,  and  staid  there  talking  together  in  the  moonlight  ;  the 
great  dog,  whose  name  is  Guard,  lying  by  them  on  the  grass. 
The  moonlight  fell  about  them  pleasantly,  and  if  Cliff  had  not 
been  there  I  wonld  have  gone  out  ;  but  I  thought  he  would 
think  me  bold,  or  perhaps  not  want  me  there.  The  big-clock 
which  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  where  I  came  down,  struck 
nine  directly,  and  Aunt  Margaret  said  I  must  be  tired  and  had 
best  go  to  bed,  for  that  they  eat  breakfast  at  six  o'clock  in  the 
morning.  She  gave  me  a  candle  and  told  me  to  find  my  way, 
which  I  did,  and  on  opening  the  door  I  saw  a  whole  handful 
of  flowers — some  lying  about  the  floor,  and  others  on  the 
pillow — looking  as  if  they  had  been  thrown  in  at  the  window 
and  lodged  just  as  they  were.  I  don't  know  who  could  have 
done  it  ;  perhaps  Peter — but  I  don't  care  who  did  it,  they 
made  the  room  very  sweet,  and  I  left  them  scattered  just  as 
they  were,  on  bed  and  floor.  I  was  not  sleepy,  I  suppose, 
because  of  the  strange  place,  and  sitting  down  by  the  table  at 
the  window,  I  found  a  book  lying  upon  it,  which  proved  to  be 
a  volume  of  bound  newspapers.  On  the  blank  leaf  was  writ- 
ten, '  The  property  of  Clifton  Wentworth,'  in  the  roundest, 
best  hand  I  ever  saw  ;  I  could  read  it  as  well  as  print ;  so  the 
young  man  knows  something  if  he  does  live  in  the  country,  j 
read  a  good  while  in  the  papers,  selecting  the  pieces  which 
seemed  to  have  been  most  read,  for  I  supposed  they  were  the 
best ;  and,  indeed,  I  found  some  excellent  articles,  better  than 
I  remember  to  have  read  before.  I  went  to  bed  under  the 
roses,  at  last,  and  listened  to  the  strange  sounds  in  the  air, 
of  birds  and  insects.  Nothing  else  could  be  heard,  except  now 
and  then  a  team  rattling  along  the  turnpike  road. 


210  MAKING   THE   CHILDREN   SOMETHING. 

"  The  sun  was  shining  bright  across  ray  bed  when  I  woke, 
and  afraid  I  had  slept  too  long,  I  hastened  down,  and  sure 
enough,  breakfast  was  over,  and  Uncle  Wentworth  and  Cliff 
gone  out  to  the  fields,  and  milking  done,  and  Aunt  Margaret 
making  bread,  for  it  was  after  eight  o'clock. 

"  I  asked  why  she  didn't  call  me  ;  and  she  said  she  knew  I 
was  tired  and  sleepy,  and  that  I  would  soon  learn  their  way, 
and  she  complimented  me  by  saying  I  seemed  very  smart  and 
clever.  I  tried  to  atone  for  my  sloth,  and  be  as  good  as  she 
had  thought  me  ;  so  I  told  her  she  must  not  let  me  sleep  so  late 
again — that  I  was  to  work  for  my  board,  and  would  begin 
then.  I  hope  Uncle  Wentworth  did  not  know  I  was  sleeping 
so  late — he  might  think  badly  of  me  ;  Cliff,  of  course,  would 
not  think  of  me  at  all.  I  breakfasted  on  milk-toast,  and  then 
having  put  my  room  in  order,  went  with  Maria  to  the  garden, 
where  we  picked  a  basin  of  currants,  and  another  of  green 
beans  ;  and  afterwards,  sitting  in  the  shade  of  a  tree,  pre- 
pared them  to  cook.  It  is  not  lonesome  here  as  I  thought  it 
would  be  ;  everything  seems  happy  and  busy  ;  bees,  and  birds, 
and  butterflies,  and  chickens,  and  men  and  women  the  busiest 
of  all.  It  was  noon  before  I  dreamed  of  it,  and  Aunt  Marga- 
ret said  it  was  time  to  '  set  the  table,'  which  she  showed  me 
how  to  do,  telling  me  I  was '  handy,'  and  that  work  seemed 
to  come  natural  to  me.  I  like  her  more  and  more,  she  is  so  kind 
to  everybody,  and  working  seems  to  her  like  play  ;  her  bread 
bakes  just  right,  and  everything  is  just  where  she  wants  it. 
She  says  we  must  like  work  in  the  first  place,  and  then  have  a 
place  for  everything  and  everything  in  its  place,  and  all  will  go 
well ;  and  she  says  if  I  keep  on  for  a  week  as  well  as  I  have 
begun,  I  will  more  than  earn  my  board,  and  she  will  give  me 


MAKING   THE    CHILDREN    SOMETHING.  211 

a  dollar.  1  mean  to  be  up  to-morrow  morning  in  time  to  help 
get  the  breakfast.  We  had  for  dinner  to-day  beans  and  pork 
and  potatoes,  and  baked  apples,  and  custard  pies,  and  milk  ;  I 
blew  the  dinner  horn  myself,  as  well  as  anybody,  Aunt  Marga- 
ret said. 

"  Cliff  was  gone  to  get  his  scythe  mended,  and  he  did  not 
come  home  to  dinner,  which  I  was  sorry  for,  though  no  more 
for  him  than  I  would  have  been  for  Uncle  Wentworth.  He 
said  the  dinner  was  very  nice,  and  he  supposed  it  was  because 
I  helped  to  prepare  it. 

"  When  the  dishes  were  put  away,  Aunt  Margaret  put  on  a 
clean  dress  and  cap,  and  sat  in  the  porch  with  some  sewing, 
and  having  given  the  required  attention  to  my  own  wardrobe, 
I  sat  with  and  assisted  her  for  the  rest  of  the  afternoon.  We 
had  a  pleasant  time  together,  and  though  we  talked  all  the 
while,  I  made  two  shirt-sleeves  for  Cliff,  stitching  the  wrist- 
bands, which  was  more  than  Aunt  Margaret  did. 

"  At  sunset  I  assisted  to  set  the  table  again — this  time  on 
the  porch  ;  and  just  as  the  light  became  a  little  dim,  we  sat 
down,  altogether.  Aunt  Margaret  told  Cliff  I  had  made  a 
pair  of  sleeves  for  him,  and  said  a  good  deal  more  about  how 
smart  I  was,  which  made  me  ashamed — he  did  not  share  my 
embarrassment,  but  laughing,  said,  as  he  shook  his  curls  away, 
that  was  very  well  for  me,  but  that  he  knew  a  young  lady  who 
could  make  an  entire  shirt  in  an  afternoon.  His  mother  said 
that  was  one  of  his  stories,  and  I  believe  it  is — I  am  sure  he 
doesn't  know  any  such  young  woman.  After  supper  I  went  out 
with  Peter  to  learn  to  milk,  and  Uncle  Wentworth  told  Cliff 
to  go  and  show  me  ;  but  though  he  came  along,  he  only  laugh- 
ed at  my  awkwardness  a  little  while,  and  went  away — he  is 


212  MAKING   THE    CHILDREN    SOMETHING. 

most  provoking,  but  as  handsome  a  young  man  as  ever  I  saw — 
the  dress  he  wears  is  so  becoming.  I  have  not  yet  seen  him 
wear  a  coat,  but  am  sure  he  looks  better  without  than  he 
would  with  one,  and  I  don't  believe  he  has  studied  dress  as  an 
art  at  all.  I  found  him  examining  the  new  sleeves  when  I 
came  in,  and  he  politely  offered  me  his  chair,  providing  an- 
other for  himself — for  all  were  sitting  together  on  the  porch. 
I  don't  know  why,  but  I  declined,  and  went  straight  to  my 
room,  where  I  found  on  the  table  a  small  leaf  basket  full  of 
ripe  blackberries.  I  don't  know  who  put  them  there  ;  it  could 
not  have  been  Cliff,  for  he  don't  think  anything  about  me. 
The  book  was  open  too,  and  a  rose  laid  on  this  verse  : 

" '  To  please  my  pretty  one,  I  thought ; 

Alas,  unhappy  I, 

The  s'mjile  gift  of  flowers  I  brought 
Has  won  me  no  reply.' 

"  I  wonder  if  Cliff  had  anything  to  do  with  all  this  ?  More 
likely  it  was  the  work  of  Peter  or  Maria. 

"  THIRD  EVENING. 

"  Two  days  have  gone  since  I  came  here,  and  two  days  so 
short  I  never  saw,  and  yet  they  are  not  broken  in  upon  by  calls, 
by  dressing,  or  by  going  out,  though  Aunt  Margaret  says  we 
shall  go. visiting  a  little  and  see  some  visitors,  she  hopes,  when 
the  harvest  is  past.  I  do  not  feel  the  need  of  any  change  yet ; 
it  will  keep  me  busy  for  a  month  more  to  see  all  the  things  on 
the  farm,  and  it  will  require  longer  than  that  to  learn  to  keep 
house  well,  Aunt  Margaret  says.  While  it  was  yet  dark  in  my 
room  I  heard  such  a  crowing  of  roosters  as  I  never  heard  be- 
fore— it  was  like  a  baud  of  music,  almost,  and  especially  when, 


MAKING   THE   CHILDREN    SOMETHING.  213 

as  it  grew  lighter,  a  thousand  birds  in  the  trees  and  bushes 
about  the  yard  began  to  shake  their  wings  and  sing  as  if  it  did 
their  hearts  good.  I  cannot  make  you  understand  how  sweet 
it  was — I  could  not  bear  to  lie  in  bed,  and  as  soon  as  I  could 
see  to  dress,  arose,  and  throwing  the  window  open  wide,  look- 
ed out :  there  was  no  dew  on  the  grass,  though  yesterday 
morning  it  was  all  wet,  and  streaked  with  green  paths  where 
footsteps  had  been.  One  great  white  star  stood  away  in  the 
south,  as  it  were  right  in  the  tree-tops  ;  and  where  the  sun  was 
coming  up  lay  a  long  bank  of  clouds,  red  as  fire.  No  wind 
stirred  the  leaves,  or  the  curtain  of  my  window,  and  I  could 
not  smell  the  hayfields  as  I  did  yesterday.  I  heard  dogs  bark- 
ing across  the  hills,  and  boys  calling  the  cows,  but  mostly  it 
was  very  still.  While  I  staid  at  the  window  I  saw  a  young 
man  walk  along  the  turnpike  road,  with  a  brisk  lively  step, 
and  an  energetic  swing  of  the  arms,  as  though  he  had  some- 
thing important  to  do,  and  was  thus  early  astir  to  do  it ;  as  he 
passed  by  I  knew  it  was  the  schoolmaster,  and  on  telling  Aunt 
Margaret  about  it,  she  said  he  walked  so  every  morning — 
sometimes  two  or  three  miles — for  his  health's  sake,  and  that 
he  is  thought  a  young  man  of  great  promise,  and  is  educating 
himself  to  go  as  a  missionary  to  some  distant  country.  I 
thought  about  the  young  schoolgirl,  and  wondered  if  she 
would  go  with  him. 

"  I  put  my  room  in  nice  order  before  I  left  it  to-day,  which 
Aunt  Margaret  said  was  greatly  better  than  coming  down  an 
hour  after  breakfast.  I  thought  to  be  the  first  one  up  ;  but 
Maria  and  Peter  were  already  gone  to  milk,  the  tea-kettle  was 
steaming,  and  Aunt  Margaret  was  spreading  the  table. 

"  Seeing  nothing  I   could   do,  Aunt  Margaret  told   me  I 


214  MAKING  THE   CHILDREN   SOMETHING. 

might  go  out  and  feed  the  chickens,  and  she  showed  me  how 
to  make  food  for  them  by  mixing  corn-meal  and  water  together. 
I  had  two  quarts  or  more  of  it,  which  I  scattered  about  the 
ground,  calling  the  chickens  to  come  ;  and  I  do  believe  two 
hundred  of  them  came  running  from  every  direction  :  roosters, 
red  and  black  and  speckled,  with  tails  shining  like  a  pea- 
cock's ;  and  hens  of  all  colors — some  old  and  having  feathers 
hanging  loose  ;  others  with  cunning  brown  eyes,  and  combs  as 
red  as  roses,  and  looking  plump  and  sleek,  and  well  to  do — 
these  I  take  to  be  the  young  lady  hens  ;  and  then  there  were 
faded  prim-looking  ones  that  kept  apart  and  made  no  noise, 
and  these  I  supposed  to  be  the  old  maids  :  the  lean  ruffled 
ones,  seeming  cross  and  picking  at  other  hens,  I  thought  were  the 
worn  mothers  of  hungry  broods,  themselves  giving  all  to  their 
little  ones.  But  the  dear  little  chickens  were  prettiest  of  all — 
some  yellow  as  gold,  and  some  black  as  a  crow,  and  others 
speckled — I  could  not  tell  which  was  the  most  cunning,  all 
were  so  pretty.  I  caught  one  or  two  of  them  in  my  hands ; 
but  the  mother  hens,  seeing  me,  flew  right  at  my  face,  and  I 
was  glad  to  let  them  go.  While  I  was  feeding,  Uncle  Went- 
worth  came  along  from  his  morning  work  at  the  barn,  and  I 
said  to  him  I  wished  Albert  was  there  to  see  the  chickens  and 
ride  the  horses,  but  that  I  supposed  he  was  gone  to  Florence 
before  that  time  to  learn  to  paint.  He  asked  me  if  Albert  had 
any  genius  for  painting  ;  I  told  him  I  did  not  know,  but  that  I 
was  sure  he  liked  horses  better  than  pictures  ;  and  he  then  said 
money  would  not  put  genius  into  anybody — it  must  be  born  in 
them,  and  that  a  great  thing  couldn't  be  got  out  of  a  man 
unless  it  was  first  in  him.  The  minds  of  people,  he  said, 
were  just  as  various  as  their  bodies,  and  we  could  not  greatly 


MAKING   THE   CHILDREN   SOMETHING.  215 

change  the  form  of  the  face,  nor  could  we  any  more  the  mind. 
It  seemed  to  me  worth  thinking  about,  but  perhaps  you  will 
not  agree  with  me. 

"  While  we  were  talking,  Cliff  joined  us,  having  in  his  hand 
a  small  basket  full  of  eggs — all  fresh  and  white  :  he  said  he 
would  show  me  where  the  nests  are,  that  I  may  gather  them 
to-morrow  myself.  He  is  very  handsome,  but  I  don't  believe 
he  gave  me  the  berries.  I  went  this  afternoon  to  the  meadow 
where  he  was  at  work  to  see  if  I  could  find  any — I  thought, 
perhaps,  he  would  think  I  came  to  see  him,  and  so  I  kept  on 
the  other  side  of  the  field.  Uncle  Wentworth  came  and  showed 
me  where  there  were  plenty  of  berries,  and  I  soon  filled  the 
little  basin  I  had  quite  full.  I  then  thought  I  would  sit  a  little 
while  in  the  shade  of  a  walnut  tree  that  grew  in  the  meadow, 
and  see  them  make  hay,  for  there  were  a  dozen  men  in  the 
field,  some  mowing,  some  pitching,  some  raking,  and  others 
loading  and  hauling  it  into  the  barn.  All  worked  as  fast  as 
they  could,  for  uncle  said  it  would  rain — black  clouds  were 
flying  about  the  sky,  and  now  and  then  a  gust  of  wind  swept 
through  the  corn-field,  making  a  solemn  sort  of  noise,  and 
away  in  the  orchard  I  could  hear  the  apples  falling  from  the 
early  trees,  as  they  call  the  harvest-apple  trees.  The  horses 
were  almost  covered  up  with  the  great  load  of  hay,  as  they 
drew  it  towards  the  barn — two  or  three  men  followed,  the  others 
remaining  to  work  in  the  field,  for  the  clouds  grew  blacker  and 
began  to  close  together.  I  was  not  near  the  house,  yet  I 
thought  I  could  run  home  when  the  sprinkling  began,  and  sat 
still.  I  could  see  the  schoolhouse  across  the  field,  and  see  the 
children  when  they  came  out  to  play — up  and  down  the  woods 
they  ran,  talking  and  laughing  so  loud  that  I  could  sometimes 


216  MAKING   TIIE   CHILDREN    SOMETHING. 

hear  what  they  said.  I  noticed  the  young  girl  that  rode  with 
us — I  knew  her  by  the  blue  bonnet,  and  the  quiet,  melancholy 
way  she  had  ;  for  she  did  not  join  in  the  playing  nor  the  talk- 
ing, but  went  apart,  picking  flowers.  I  left  my  berries,  crossed 
the  meadow,  and  joined  her  in  the  woods,  intending  to  ask  her 
to  come  and  see  me  at  Uncle  Weutworth's  ;  but  we  were 
scarcely  seated  on  a  mossy  log  together  when  the  rain  came 
dashing  down  in  a  perfect  torrent,  so  that  I  was  forced  to  go 
with  her  into  the  schoolhouse  for  shelter.  The  master  made 
me  welcome  very  politely,  saying  many  pleasant  things  which  I 
do  not  remember.  The  name  of  the  young  girl  is  Mary  Bell, 
and  the  master's  name  is  Hillburn.  I  noticed  that  Mary  kept 
the  flowers  she  had  gathered  in  her  hand,  and  I  could  not  help 
thinking  she  would  gladly  have  given  them  to  the  master,  but 
she  did  not,  and  presently  seeing  that  she  was  picking  them  to 
pieces  I  took  them  out  of  her  hands,  and  the  master  coming 
that  way  shortly  after  admired  one  of  them  very  much,  and  on 
my  giving  it  to  him  he  set  it  in  his  button-hole  and  wore  it 
while  I  staid,  which  was  not  long,  for  the  storm  was  soon 
past,  the  heavy  wind  seeming  to  drive  away  the  clouds.  The 
trees  swung  their  tops  together,  and  we  heard  the  fall  of  some 
dead  limbs  in  the  woods,  which  made  me  a  little  afraid.  The 
master  told  me  there  was  no  danger — that  the  trees  near  the 
schoolhouse  were  too  sound  to  break,  and  that  the  wind  was 
not  strong  enough  to  uproot  them.  Mary,  who  sat  by  me,  was 
trembling  with  fright,  and  her  pale  cheek  was  paler  than  ever, 
but  he  spoke  never  a  word  to  her  about  her  fear  or  anything 
else.  She  is  a  sweet,  modest  girl,  and  I  could  not  help  putting 
my  arm  around  her  and  kissing  her  when  I  came  awuy.  The 
schoolmaster  is  handsome,  having  black  curls  along  his  smooth 


MAKING    THE    CHILDREN   SOMETHING.  217 

forehead  and  large  black  eyes.  His  smile  is  sweet,  and  his 
manner  for  the  most  part  that  of  one  whose  thoughts  are  upon 
himself.  He  is  quiet,  but  I  should  think  not  easily  turned 
aside  from  a  purpose  when  onee  fixed.  As  I  said,  he  spoke 
most  politely  to  me  ;  nevertheless  I  could  not  feel  as  though  he 
thought  of  me  even  while  he  was  speaking — I  wish  I  had  not 
seen  him — I  can't  get  the  picture  of  his  sad  sweet  face  out  of 
my  mind — if  he  is  happy  it  is  happiness  so  subdued  that  I  can- 
not understand  it. 

"  Whether  my  going  into  the  schoolhouse  was  a  fortunate 
thing  for  the  master  or  not,  it  certainly  was  to  the  children, 
for  I  was  never  so  much  looked  at  in  my  life — not  one  of  them 
could  see  a  book  while  I  staid  ;  some  of  them,  indeed,  held 
their  books  before  their  faces,  but  their  eyes  were  fixed  on  me 
— and  so  many  bright  eyes  I  never  saw — I  think  they  would 
light  the  house  at  night  without  any  candle.  The  little  school- 
house  stands  on  the  edge  of  a  green  maple  woods,  and  as  I 
walked  through  them  on  my  return  home,  I  could  not  help 
building  a  little  cottage  there  in  my  mind,  and  of  putting  Mary 
.and  the  schoolmaster  in  it.  Why  I  should  have  joined  them 
together  from  the  first  I  don't  know  ;  but  I  did. 

"  Half  an  hour  after  the  raiu  began  the  clouds  broke  apart 
and  the  sun  shone  again,  hot  as  ever.  Crossing  on  the  green 
swaths  of  hay  to  the  tree  where  I  had  left  my  berries,  I  found 
the  basin  heaped  full  with  finer  ones  than  I  had  gathered.  I 
asked  Uncle  Wentworth  if  he  did  it,  but  he  said  no,  and  told 
me  to  inquire  if  Cliff  knew  anything  about  it.  Just  then  I 
saw  him  drop  his  scythe  and  lift  up  one  hand,  from  which  the 
blood  was  streaming  ;  and  putting  down  my  berries,  I  ran  to 
him  aud  found  that  he  had  cut  two  of  his  fingers  badly  ;  he 

10 


218  MAKING   THE    CHILDREN   SOMETHING. 

said  it  was  nothing,  and  would  have  gone  to  work  again,  but  1 
bound  up  the  hand  with  my  handkerchief  (it  was  not  a  lace 
one),  and  ran  and  told  Uncle  Wentworth  how  bad  it  was  ;  he 
laughed,  and  said  it  was  a  trick  of  Cliff's,  done  for  the  sake  of 
being  allowed  to  go  to  the  house  to  stay  with  me  ;  Cliff  grew 
angry  at  this  and  threw  himself  down  in  the  shade  of  the  tree 
where  my  berries  were.  He  had  been  out  in  all  the  rain,  and 
his  clothes  were  wringing  wet ;  I  thought  he  might  get  his 
death-cold — so  I  coaxed  him  to  go  to  the  house  with  me,  for  I 
would  not  have  left  anybody  lying  alone  on  the  wet  grass  if  I 
could  have  helped  it.  The  mowers  laughed  when  they  saw  us, 
and  one  of  them  said  he  thought  Cliff  more  of  a  man.  I  told 
Cliff  I  did  not  hear  what  he  said,  and  I  did  not  care  either, 
and  that  I  supposed  if  one  of  his  hands  was  cut  off  he  would 
be  glad  to  leave  working.  Cliff  turned  his  head  away,  and  I 
am  sure  there  were  tears  in  his  eyes  ;  poor  Cliff  ! — it  was 
heathenish  in  the  mowers  to  laugh  ;  I  hope  Uncle  Wentworth 
did  not  give  them  one  drop  of  whisky  the  whole  afternoon.  I 
think  it  strange  if  one  person  cuts  off  a  hand,  and  another 
person  ties  it  up,  that  other  persons  must  laugh.  Aunt  Mar- 
garet said  Cliff  must  not  go  to  the  field  any  more  that  day — 
and  she  called  him  an  unfortunate  boy  ;  but  he  is  not  a  boy — 
he  is,  he  will  be  twenty-one  years  old  next  year,  and  I  am  sure 
that  is  old  enough.  She  gave  him  the  new  shirt  that  I  helped 
to  make  ;  I  dressed  the  hand  myself ;  I  knew  just  how  it  was, 
and  could  do  it  best ;  Maria,  who  stood  by,  had  to  say  that 
Master  Cliff's  hand  didn't  look  much  like  Miss  Annie's  j  I  told 
her  I  wished  she  would  go  back  to  her  work,  and  mind  her 
work  ;  but  she  did  not,  and  Cliff  said,  '  No,  Maria,  my  hands 
look  more  like  yours  ;'  and  he  put  his  head  down  on  his  arm 


MAKING   THE    CHILDREN    SOMETHING.  219 

and  kept  it  there  a  good  while.  If  he  thought  I  hated  him 
because  the  sun  had  made  his  hands  a  little  brown,  he  thought 
what  was  not  the  truth,  and  I  wanted  to  tell  him  so,  but  I 
could  not  say  it — and  so  I  turned  back  my  sleeves  and  began 
to  scour  knives  to  show  him  that  I  was  not  afraid  of  my  hands, 
and  tried  to  make  him  forget  the  mowers  and  Maria  too,  by 
telling  him  about  my  visit  to  the  schoolhouse.  He  smiled 
directly,  and  asked  me  if  I  thought  Mr.  Hillburn  was  hand- 
some ?  I  said  yes  ;  upon  which  he  told  me  that  lie  and  Mary 
Bell  were  thought  to  like  each  other  very  much.  I  told  him 
the  master  had  worn  my  flower,  at  any  rate  ;  but  still  he 
would  not  give  up  that  he  liked  Mary  better  than  any  one 
else. 

"  When  I  came  back,  after  a  short  absence  from  the  room,  I 
found  Cliff  looking  at  the  stitching  in  the  wristbands  of  his 
new  shirt.  I  asked  him  if  he  liked  it,  for  the  sake  of  saying 
something,  and  he  replied  that  he  liked  anything  I  did — he  is  so 
kind  you  would  like  him,  I  know.  I  read  for  him  some  amusing 
stories  I  found  in  the  paper  ;  but  the  night  seemed  to  come 
in  a  minute  ;  so  I  left  the  reading  to  assist  about  the  supper, 
for  I  don't  want  Cliff,  nor  any  of  them,  to  think  me  lazy. 
Maria  could  not  get  water  enough  to  fill  the  tea-kettle  out 
of  the  well  to-night,  and  Peter  took  a  bucket,  and  I  went 
with  him  to  a  spring  at  the  foot  of  the  orchard  hill,  which,  he 
said,  was  never  known  to  be  dry  in  his  time.  The  water  breaks 
right  out  of  a  bank  in  a  clear,  cold  stream  as  big  as  my  arm, 
and  falls  into  a  shallow  well,  about  which  is  a  pavement  of 
flat  stones,  and  running  over  this,  it  flows  along  the  hollow  in  a 
stream  half  a  foot  deep  in  places.  If  the  drought  continues, 
Peter  said,  the  cattle  will  all  have  to  be  brought  there  to  drink, 


220  MAKING   THE    CHILDREN    SOMETHING. 

for  there  is  no  other  such  spring  on  the  farm.  Flags  and  broad- 
leaved  grass  grow  along  the  sides  of  the  run,  and  two  or  three 
brown  birds,  having  very  long  logs,  flew  up  before  us,  and  one 
rabbit,  started  from  its  hiding-place,  and  ran  so  fast  I  could  not 
see  what  it  looked  like.  Uncle  said  at  supper-time,  the  rain 
had  not  done  any  good  at  all  ;  that  the  ground  was  not  wet 
to  the  depth  of  an  inch,  and  that  the  corn-leaves  are  all  curling 
together  for  the  want  of  it.  Cliff  looked  pale  and  did  not  eat 
much,  nor  say  much.  I  am  afniid  the  wound  is  going  to  make 
him  sick  ;  even  Aunt  Margaret,  who  is  so  good  and  kind, 
does  not  seem  so  much  alarmed  as  I  should  think  she  would  be. 
When  the  meal  was  concluded,  Uncle  Wentworth  sent  Cliff 
about  the  farm  to  see  if  there  was  water  enough  for  the  cattle  ; 
I  wanted  to  go  with  him — I  thought  it  would  be  a  good  oppor- 
tunity for  me  to  see  all  the  farm  ;  but  no  one  asked  me  to  go, 
so  I  left  Maria  to  do  her  own  work,  and  came  to  my  room  to 
write  to  my  dear  parents.  The  sun  is  gone  down  behind  the 
trees,  and  all  the  western  sky  is  golden  and  orange,  shaded 
with  black — one  star  stands  out,  clear  and  beautiful,  but  I  can 
see  to  write  by  the  daylight  yet.  Aunt  Margaret  says  I  must 
be  up  at  four  o'clock  in  the  morning  and  help  to  churn,  and  if 
the  day  bids  fair  she  will  have  something  to  tell  me.  I  wonder 
what  it  can  be.  There  is  Cliff,  standing  under  my  window,  with  his 
hands  full  of  scarlet  and  blue  flowers — he  says  I  may  have  them, 
but  he  can't  throw  them  up  to  the  window,  so  I  must  go  down. 

"FIFTH   EVENING. 

"  When  I  dropped  my  pen  the  third  evening,  it  was  with 
the  intention  of  taking  it  up  in  a  few  minutes  ;  but  Cliff 
seeemed  so  lonesome,  I  thought  it  my  duty  to  stay  with  him. 


MAKIXG   THE    CHILDREN"   SOMETHING.  221 

I  told  him  I  would  walk  with  him  another  time,  upon  which  he 
said  it  was  not  then  too  late  ;  so  we  strolled  together  into  the 
hjgh  road,  and  turned  down  the  way  I  had  come  from  the  city. 
We  could  hear  voices  across  the  hills  at  the  houses  of  the 
neighbors  ;  some,  indeed,  were  just  calling  the  cows  home — 
could  hear  the  tinkling  of  bells,  and  sometimes  the  chirp  of 
a  bird,  and  that  was  all.  Cliff  told  me  about  his  college  days, 
and  how  much  he  had  tried  to  like  study  as  well  as  did  his 
older  brother,  but  that  he  would  always  rather  plough  an  acre 
than  commit  a  Latin  lesson,  and  that  after  he  had  obtained  a 
certain  amount  of  knowledge,  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  was 
losing  time,  and  that  for  the  future  he  could  better  learn  by 
experience  as  he  went  along  than  by  books  alone.  His  idea  of 
happiness,  he  says,  is  fifty  acres  of  ground,  containing  woods, 
and  orchards,  and  springs  of  water,  and  being  nicely  stocked 
with  cattle,  and  horses,  and  sheep  ;  having  on  it  all  the  best 
implements  of  husbandry,  a  good  little  house  full  of  everything 
to  make  comfort.  But  what  that  everything  would  be,  Ciiff 
didn't  say.  I  cannot  repeat  half  so  well  as  he  said  it  ;  but  if 
you  heard  him,  you  would  be  convinced  that  a  farmer's  life  is 
the  happiest  one  in  the  world. 

"  We  were  standing  on  the  stone  bridge  and  talking,  when 
we  heard  some  one  singing  the  sweetest  and  saddest  song  I 
ever  heard  ;  and  looking  about,  we  saw  Mary  Bell  sitting 
beneath  a  walnut  tree,  a  little  distance  down  the  hollow.  She 
did  not  see  us — and  with  one  hand  pushed  partly  under  her 
hair,  and  her  blue  bonnet  on  her  knees,  was  singing  to  herself 
The  water  from  the  spring  at  Uncle  Wentworth's  made  a  plea- 
sant sound,  as  it  ran  a  little  way  from  her,  and  blue  and  white 
violets  were  thick  all  along  the  bank  ;  but  she  had  not  gath 


222  MAKING   THE    CHILDREN    SOMETHING. 

ered  any  of  them,  and  did  not  seem  to  see  them.  A  strip  of 
bark  was  peeled  from  the  top  to  the  very  bottom  of  the  tree 
against  which  she  leaned,  and  the  wood  was  cracked  apart,  in 
some  places  wide  enough  for  me  to  have  slipped  my  hand  in 
the  body  of  the  tree.  It  is  very  tall,  and  has  been  struck  with 
lightning,  Cliff  says,  two  or  three  times.  We  called  Mary — and 
tying  on  her  hood,  she  presently  joined  us  ;  and  turning  into 
the  long  green  shady  lane,  which  I  noticed  when  I  first  passed 
by,  we  walked  up  and  np  ;  Cliff  quite  forgetting  his  hand,  and 
talking  and  laughing  gaily  all  the  time.  But  no  matter  what 
Cliff  does,  it  seems  the  properest  and  most  becoming  thing  in 
the  world,  and  I  wish  he  would  keep  on  ;  but  when  he  turns  to 
something  else,  it  seems  better  still.  I  never  saw  anybody  like 
him — he  could  not  do  anything  that  he  would  not  make  grace- 
ful. 

"  Mary  smiled  now  and  then,  for  no  one  could  help  sharing 
somewhat  in  the  merriment  of  Cliff;  but  she  did  not  once 
laugh  outright,  and  often  seemed  not  to  hear  what  we  said. 
We  had  gone  a  mile,  perhaps,  without  passing  a  house,  or  see- 
ing anybody  ;  now  and  then  we  met  some  cows  feeding  along 
the  roadside  ;  but  it  was  quite  dark,  the  working  was  done,  and 
only  we  seemed  out  for  pleasure,  when  we  came  in  view  of  a 
large  red  house  standing  near  the  roadside.  All  was  still  about 
it,  for  the  country  people  go  to  bed  very  early  ;  but  in  one  of 
the  chambers  next  the  road  a  light  was  burning,  and  seated  by 
the  open  window,  with  his  book  before  him,  was  the  school- 
master. Cliff  called  him  to  come  out  ;  and  putting  down  his 
book  as  quietly  as  though  our  visit  were  just  what  he  expected, 
he  came  out  ;  but  when  we  asked  him  to  walk  with  us,  excused 
himself  by  saying  his  studies  would  not  permit.  Cliff  would 


MAKING   THE    CHILDKEX   SOMETHING.  223 

not  hear  of  it,  and  told  him,  laughingly,  that  he  might  never 
have  another  opportunity  of  walking  with  us  all  ;  and  after 
some  further  pleasant  urging,  he  finally  came  along  ;  and,  don't 
you  think,  most  provokingly  offered  his  arm  to  me.  I  was  so 
vexed  I  didn't  hear  what  he  said  ;  but  try  all  I  could,  I  could 
not  invent  any  way  by  which  I  could  amend  matters.  Coming 
to  a  mossy  log,  Cliff  said  we  would  sit  down,*  and  came  to  me 
to  get  the  bandage  tightened  on  his  hand,  and  when  that  was 
done  he  sat  by  me  ;  and  when  we  went  forward  again,  he 
slipped  my  arm  through  his,  leaving  Mr.  Hillburn  to  walk  with 
Mary.  I  heard  him  tell  her  that  he  had  fixed  the  day  of  his 
departure  from  the  neighborhood,  and  that  that  walk  would 
probably  be  the  last  they  should  ever  take  together.  I  did 
not  hear  what  Mary  said,  her  tones  were  so  low  ;  and  pres- 
ently we  fell  further  apart,  and  soon  lost  sight  of  them  alto- 
gether. 

"  When  we  gained  the  stone  bridge  again  we  met  the  school- 
master, returning  home  with  a  brisk  step.  He  had  taken  Mary 
home,  and  was  thus  soon  returning,  so  it  cannot  be  he  loves 
her.  The  moon  was  coming  up  when  we  reached  the  house, 
and  so  bright  and  beautiful  it  looked,  that  we  sat  on  the  porch 
a  little  while  to  watch  it  ;  but  Aunt  Margaret  came  to  the 
door  pretty  soon,  and  told  me  it  was  ten  o'clock,  and  she  feared 
I  would  not  be  up  in  time  for  the  churning  in  the  morning. 

"  I  was  not  sleepy,  nevertheless  I  went  to  bed,  though  for 
hours  I  lay  wide  awake,  thinking  of  a  great  many  things  that 
would  not  interest  you,  if  I  should  write  them.  The  clock 
struck  twelve,  and  I  was  listening  to  hear  it  strike  one,  the  last 
I  remember. 

"  It  was  not  quite  light  when  I  awoke.     I  heard  Maria  sing- 


224  MAKING   THE    CHILDREN   SOMETHING 

ing  a  hymn  at  the  kitchen  door,  and  hastened  to  dress  and  join 
her.  The  cream  was  in  the  churn,  and  with  right  good  will  I 
set  to  work  ;  and  when  Aunt  Margaret  came,  I  had  taken  up 
six  pounds  of  hard  yellow  butter.  After  breakfast,  which 
Maria  had  ready  in  a  twinkling,  Aunt  Margaret  asked  me  if  I 
could  ride  on  horseback,  and  said  inasmuch  as  Cliff  could  not 
work  that  day,  sh'e  had  fixed  in  her  mind  a  little  visit  for  as  to 
her  brother's  house,  six  miles  away.  I  was  pleased  with  the 
thought  of  riding,  and  Cliff  said  he  knew  I  could  manage  a 
horse  without  trouble  ;  so  it  was  soon  arranged  that  we  should 
go.  Aunt  Margaret's  side-saddle  was  brought  from  the  garret, 
looking  as  bright  and  nice  as  new  ;  and  a  beautiful  little  black 
mare,  that  uncle  said  was  gentle  as  a  lamb,  was  bridled  and 
saddled  ;  and  a  dark  grey,  with  fine  limbs  and  little  sharp  ears, 
was  placed  beside  her  for  Cliff. 

"  '  Oh,  what  shall  I  wear  ?'  I  said,  when  I  thought  of  it,  for  I 
had  no  riding-dress  nor  hat.  But  Aunt  Margaret,  who  has  al- 
ways some  provision,  found  for  me  an  old  black  skirt  of  hers, 
and  Uncle  Wentworth  said  I  might  have  his  hat,  if  I  wanted 
it.  I  said  I  would  take  Cliff's  cap — at  which  they  all  laughed 
very  much  ;  but  when  I  had  tied  my  green  veil  on  it,  they 
agreed  that  it  became  me  charmingly  ;  and  having  taken 
charge  of  many  messages,  we  mounted  and  rode  away.  I  felt 
strange,  a  little  afraid  at  first,  but  we  went  slow  till  I  got 
more  courage.  I  managed  my  mare  admirably,  Cliff  said,  and 
he  ought  to  be  a  judge,  having  been  used  to  horses  all  his 
life. 

"  We  soon  left  the  turnpike-road,  and  turned  aside  into  a  road 
much  less  travelled,  narrow  and  crooked,  and  running  for  the 
most  part  through  the  woods.  The  day  was  hot,  not  a  leaf 


MAKESTG   THE    CHILDREN   SOMETHING.  225 

stirring  nor  a  bird  singing  in  the  trees — we  could  see  no  clouds, 
and  the  parched  and  dusty  grass  made  us  look  for  them  often. 
We  rode  slowly,  partly  for  the  sake  of  talking,  and  partly  be- 
cause I  was  not  used  to  riding  ;    so  it  was  not  far  from  noon 
when  we  turned  the  heads  of  our  horses  into  a  lane  almost 
overgrown  with  grass,  and  having  thistles  and  briers  along  the 
fences.     It  seemed  a  lonesome  place,  and  I  should  have  felt 
homesick  but  for  Cliff,  who  had  never  been  more  merry.     I 
asked  whether  the  aunt  we  were  going  to  visit  was  like  his 
mother  ;  and  then  it  was  that  I  first  learned,  the  aunt,  whose 
house  we  were  going  to,  had  been  dead  many  years,  and  that 
his   uncle  was  a   man  over  fifty  years  old,   with  whom  two 
grandchildren  lived,  and  that  the  woman  who  kept  house  for 
him  was  a  widow,  named  Mickmick  ;  '  and  I  think/  said  Cliff, 
'she  would  not  be  averse  to  becoming  my  aunt.'     As  we  talked, 
we  came  to  the  barn,  which  stood  on  the  side  of  the  lane  oppo- 
site the  house,   and  a  hundred  yards  from  it  perhaps.     The 
doors  were  open  wide,  and  looking  in,  we  saw  two  young  girls 
there  spinning  wool — they  stopped  their  wheels  when  they  saw 
us,  and  stood  still  bashfully,  for  it  is  not  often,  I  suspect,  they 
see  visitors.     We  dismounted  by  a  great  block  near  the  gate, 
and  took  our  way  down  a  narrow  path  towards  the  house. 
Stepping-stones  were  laid  along,  but  the  path  was  not  regular- 
ly paved.     The  dwelling  stood  on  a  little  eminence  slopoing 
either  way,  and  on  one  side  was  the  garden  where  we  saw 
bean-vines  in  abundance,  with  hollyhocks  and  sunflowers  grow- 
ing among  them.     Quite  a  hedge  of  herbs  grew  along  the  pal- 
ing fence,  and  underneath  them  a  great  many  hens  and  chick- 
ens were  wallowing  in  the  dust.     I  think  they  knew  we  were 
strangers,  for  they  cackled  and  ran  fluttering  away  like  wild- 

10* 


226  MAKING   THE    CHILDREN    SOMETHING. 

fire.  The  house  is  built  partly  of  brick  and  partly  of  hewu 
logs,  and  is  quite  overgrown  with  moss  and  creepers. 

"  In  the  hollow  opposite  the  garden,  and  beyond  the  house, 
stands  an  old  mill,  moss-grown  too,  and  the  day  of  our  visit 
it  was  making  a  lively  click.  We  rapped  again  and  again,  but 
our  summons  was  not  answered  :  so  we  went  in  ;  the  door 
stood  open,  and  Cliff  said  I  might  sit  down,  and  he  would  sec 
if  he  could  not  find  Uncle  John — that  he  was  somewhere  about, 
he  knew,  inasmuch  as  the  mill  was  going.  Mrs.  Mickmick  was 
seated  on  the  porch  next  the  mill,  and  hearing  our  voices,  came 
in  with  no  very  amiable  manner.  Thieves  might  break  in  and 
steal  the  silver  spoons,  she  said,  for  anything  she  knew — not  a 
man  about  the  house  to  tend  to  things — she  didn't  know  as  she 
need  to  care  if  everything  was  burnt  up  ;  and  yet  she  was 
such  a  fool,  she  could  not  help  but  care.  She  told  Cliff  he 
could  put  his  horses  in  the  stable,  if  he  had  not  got  too  big  to 
wait  on  himself  in  consequence  of  keeping  tip-top  company, 
and  she  glanced  at  me  as  though  she  could  not  determine  what 
I  was.  Finally,  she  said  she  would  ask  me  to  take  off  my  bon- 
net, if  I  had  one  on  ;  but  as  I  had  not,  I  might  do  as  I  pleased. 

"  Having  inquired  of  Cliff  if  his  mother  was  well,  she  said 
she  should  think  she  had  enough  to  do  without  waiting  on 
townfolks  ;  and  on  being  told  that  I  was  come  to  learn  to 
work,  she  replied  that  the  room  of  some  folks  was  as  good  as 
their  company.  I  did  not  like  Mrs.  Mickmick  ;  she  is  tall  and 
dark,  and  I  should  think  had  not  smiled  for  many  years.  Her 
frock  and  cap  were  in  the  fashion  of  half  a  century  ago,  and 
she  seemed  vexed  that  I  was  not  so  too.  She  wore  no  stock- 
ings, her  shoes  were  very  coarse,  and  her  bony  hands  were  the 
color  of  Maria's,  from  having  been  dyeing  wool. 


MAKING   THE    CHILDREN    SOMETHING.  227 

'"Where  is  Uncle  -John?'  asked  Cliff.  'How  should  I 
know  ?'  she  replied  ;  '  but  if  he  is  not  deaf  and  dumb,  I'll 
make  him  hear  ;'  and  taking  down  a  tin  horn  that  hung  be- 
side the  door,  she  puffed  her  withered  cheeks  quite  round  in 
blowing  on  it.  '  There  !'  she  said,  after  tooting  for  five 
minutes  ;  '  if  John  Gilbraeth  don't  hear  that,  it's  because  of 
the  gabble  of  old  widow  Wakely.' 

"  Uncle  John  did  hear  it,  however,  and  stepping  out  to  the 
door  of  the  mill,  asked  what  was  wanting  ;  but  Mrs.  Mickmick 
told  him  sourly  to  come  and  see  ;  upou  which  he  came  slowly 
forward,  looking  both  ashamed  and  afraid,  I  thought,  and  more 
like  a  boy  about  to  be  whipped,  than  a  man  in  the  midst  of  his 
own  possessions.  '  There's  your  nephew  in  the  house,'  she 
said,  when  he  came  near,  '  and  a  girl  from  town — it's  them 
that  want  to  see  you,  and  not  me,  I'm  sure — little  do  I  care 
how  long  you  stay  in  the  mill  talking  to  old  widow  Wakely.' 
Uncle  John  shied  as  though  fearful  she  would  scratch  his  eyes 
out,  and  coming  in,  shook  hands  with  us  very  cordially,  and 
sitting  down,  asked  Mrs.  Mickmick  why  she  had  not  called  the 
girls.  '  Because,'  she  said,  '  the  girls  had  no  time  to  enter- 
tain visitors — if  we  had  come  to  see  the  girls  we  could  go 
where  the  girls  were — as  long  as  she  had  any  authority  about 
that  house  she  was  not  going  to  have  the  spinning  stop  for  every 
town  flirt  that  didn't  know  how  to  wash  her  own  hands.' 

"  Cliff  said,  very  provokingly,  that  he  would  go  to  the  mill 
and  find  Mrs.  Wakely — that  she  was  a  good-natured  and  lov- 
able woman  ;  and  without  more  ado  he  left  us  and  went  to  the 
mill,  sure  enough.  Uncle  John  and  I  now  went  to  the  barn 
together,where  the  young  ladies  were  still  at  their  spinning. 
Sweet,  modest  girls  they  are,  and  as  pretty  as  I  have  seen  in  a 


228  MAKING   THE    CHILDREN    SOMETHING. 

long  time.  Uncle  told  them  to  put  by  their  wheels,  and  em- 
ploy the  day  as  they  chose,  and  with  radiant  faces  they  hasten- 
ed to  obey,  and  having  reeled  up  their  yarn,  we  all  went  to  the 
house  together.  The  grand-daughters  were  soon  clad  in  holi- 
day dresses,  and  with  slippers  which  they  had  probably  not 
worn  till  then,  except  to  church.  Mrs.  Mickmick  lifted  up  her 
hands  in  horror,  and  ordered  the  girls  to  go  straight  to  the 
chamber  and  strip  off  their  Sunday  frocks,  and  go  back  to 
their  spinning  a.gain.  At  this  instant  Mrs.  Wakely,  a  tidy, 
nice-looking  little  woman,  who  it  seemed  had  ridden  to  the  mill 
to  buy  a  sack  of  flour  that  morning,  appeared  at  the  door, 
having  come  as  she  said  to  see  me  ;  and  Mrs.  Mickmick,  think- 
ing it  a  good  time,  doubtless,  to  show  her  authority,  repeated 
her  order,  and  said,  '  if  John  Gilbraeth  didn't  see  fit  to  make 
them  girls  mind  her,  he  might  find  another  housekeeper  as 
soon  as  he  chose,  that  was  all.'  The  youngest  grandchild, 
whose  name  is  Dolly,  with  the  tears  in  her  blue  eyes,  went 
close  to  Mrs.  Wakely,  and  putting  one  arm  around  her  neck, 
said,  '  Won't  you  come  and  be  housekeeper  ?' 

"  '  Well,'  said  Mrs.  Wakely,  looking  at  Uncle  John,  '  that 
depends  on  what  your  grandfather  says.' 

"  '  Well,  then,'  says  he,  shying  away  from  Mrs.  Mickmick, 
'  I  say,  Come.' 

"  Cliff  threw  up  his  hands  and  shouted.  I  felt  delighted  ; 
the  girls  laughed  and  cried  together  ;  and  Mrs.  Mickmick, 
slinging  a  sun-bonnet  on  her  head,  flew  across  the  fields  like  a 
mad  woman,  to  tell  the  scandal  to  the  nearest  gossip  she 
could  find. 

"  Just  then  Squire  Wedmam  rode  past  the  house  towards  the 
mill ;  Cliif  called  him  in,  and  by  virtue  of  his  authority,  Uncle 


MAKING   THE   CHILDREN   SOMETHING.  229 

John  and  the  widow  Wakely  were  made  one  and  inseparable. 
I  rejoiced  that  so  speedy  a  termination  was  made,  for  I  knew 
if  Mrs.  Mickmick  once  got  her  bony  hands  on  Uncle  John,  he 
would  never  be  free  again. 

"  A  happy  day  we  had,  though  the  beginning  was  inauspi- 
cious enough.  The  widow  said  she  was  not  dressed  just  as 
she  would  like  to  have  been,  but  it  did  not  make  much  differ- 
ence, and  turning  back  her  sleeves,  she  fell  to  work  as  readily 
as  though  it  had  always  been  her  own  house.  We — girls  and 
Cliff — went  to  the  woods,  and  brought  home  green  boughs  and 
flowering  twigs,  with  which  we  filled  the  fireplace  and  orna- 
mented the  wall  ;  and  when  the  table  was  spread  with  the  ex- 
tra china  and  plate,  the  girls  said  they  had  never  seen  the 
house  half  so  cheerful  and  pretty  in  their  lives.  Mrs.  Wakely 
seems  a  famous  cook,  and  as  fond  of  her  children,  as  she  calls 
them,  as  if  they  were  her  own.  She  cut  the  pattern  of  my 
sleeve,  and  says  she  will  go  to  town  and  buy  them  dresses  like 
mine  with  her  own  money,  and  that  they  shall  not  be  tied  to 
the  spinning-wheel  in  the  barn  all  the  time — it  must  not  be  all 
work  nor  all  play,  she  said,  but  a  wholesome  mixture  of  the 
two. 

"The  ride  home  seemed  very  short,  so  engaged  were  we  in 
talking  of  the  new  turn  affairs  had  taken.  The  widow  Mick- 
mick, Cliff  told  me,  had  been  his  Uncle  John's  housekeeper  for 
seven  years,  and  that  she  had  appeared  to  him  to  be  mad  all 
the  time  because  his  uncle  did  not  marry  her — '  and  I  believe  in 
my  heart,'  he  said,  'uncle  would  have  done  so  some  time  or 
other,  but  for  the  accidental  combination  of  circumstances  to- 
day.' Uncle  John  had  seemed  to  me  to  grow  taller  and  larger, 
and  more  of  a  man,  the  moment  Mrs.  Mickmick  was  out  of  the 


230  MAKING   THE   CHILDREN   SOMETHING. 

house  ;  and  Mrs.  Wakely  was  so  sweet  and  motherly  to  the 
girls,  that  I  loved  her  from  the  first  :  it  is  a  happy  change  for 
them,  I  am  sure  ;  two  or  three  visits  were  planned,  and  one  day 
was  set  apart  to  go  to  town,  before  we  came  away  ;  so  they  will 
not  be  left  to  spin  barefoot  in  the  barn,  all  the  time,  I  am' sure. 
They  walked  to  the  end  of  the  lane  with  us  to  drive  the  cows 
home  from  the  meadow ;  as  we  rode  away,  and  after  we  were 
out  of  sight  of  them,  we  could  hear  them  laughing.  They  are 
to  visit  us  in  a  week  or  two,  and  their  new  grandma  with 
them. 

"  It  was  after  sunset,  but  not  yet  dark,  when  we  got  home- 
Aunt  Margaret  sat  on  the  porch  looking  for  us,  and  beside  her 
a  grave,  handsome  young  man,  whom  she  introduced  as  her  son 
Joshua.  He  has  the  manner  and  look  of  a  city-bred  man,  is 
taller  than  Cliff — whom  he  does  not  much  resemble  in  any  way 
I  suppose  most  folks  would  think  him  finer-looking,  but  I  don't. 
Cliff  seemed  to  lose  all  his  merriment  when  he  saw  his  handsome 
and  finely-dressed  brother,  and  said  to  me,  aside,  that  if  Joshua 
had  anything  to  do  in  town,  he  might  as  well  stay  there  and 
do  it. 

"Aunt  Margaret  told  us  that  we  were  all  invited  to  drink  tea 
at  Mrs.  Bell's  the  next  afternoon. 

"  While  we  were  talking,  Cliff  complained  of  his  hand,  which 
he  said  had  not  been  so  painful  all  the  day  past,  and  asked  if 
he  dare  trouble  me  to  make  another  application  of  the  balsam 
with  which  it  had  been  dressed. 

"  I  told  him  it  was  not  any  trouble,  and  I  am  sure  it  was  not. 
I  would  be  very  hard-hearted  if  I  could  refuse  to  do  so  small  a 
favor  as  that.  I  found  it  so  neatly  bandaged  that  I  thought  it 
were  best  not  disturbed  till  morning  ;  but  when  I  said  so  Cliff 


MAKING   THE    CHILDREN    SOMETHING.  231 

replied  pettishly,  that  he  would  do  it  himself,  and  not  any 
longer  keep  me  away  from  the  very  profitable  conversation  of 
the  great  Joshua.  I  can't  think  what  makes  him  so  pouty.  I 
never  saw  him  so  before. 

"  I  was  tired  and  went  early  to  my  room,  with  the  intention 
of  writing  on  my  journal,  but  I  kept  thinking  of  Cliff,  and  of 
what  he  said  to  me,  and  could  not  write  at  all. 

"  This  morning  I  was  up  and  milked  a  cow  before  breakfast  ; 
to  be  sure  Maria  milked  three  while  I  was  milking  one,  but  I  shall 
keep  trying  till  I  learn  to  work  as  well  as  she.  Cliff  says  the 
most  useful  and  active  life  is  the  happiest,  and  I  think  so  too. 
Good  words,  he  says,  are  good  as  far  as  they  go,  but  they  are 
less  than  good  works.  He  could  not  go  to  the  field  to  work, 
and  so  he  and  I  weeded  the  garden  beds.  Joshua  came  into 
the  garden,  and  picked  and  ate  some  currants,  but  he  did  not  offer 
to  help  us  work.  Cliff  told  him  the  sun  was  burning  his  face  as 
red  as  fire,  which  seemed  to  alarm  him,  for  he  presently 
returned  to  the  shade  of  the  porch,  at  which  Cliff  made  himself 
merry.  Aunt  Margaret  called  me  directly,  upon  which  Cliff 
said  he  expected  she  wanted  me  to  listen  to  the  edifying  conver- 
sation of  his  wonderful  brother,  and  that  he  could  not  pretend 
to  outweigh  such  an  attraction  ;  but  when  I  told  him  I  would 
rather  weed  the  garden  all  day  with  him  to  help  me,  than  do 

nothing  with  Joshua  to  help  me,  he  gathered  and  gave  me  a 

% 

cluster  of  ripe  red  currants,  and  said  he  was  not  worth  my 
thinking  of,  and  that  his  brother  Joshua  was  a  great  deal  wiser 
and  better  than  he  was.  Poor  dear  Cliff !  I  don't  believe  any. 
body  is  better  than  he  is.  Aunt  Margaret  wanted  me  to  find 
her  some  fresh  eggs,  so  I  must  needs  ask  Cliff  to  show  me  the 
nests  ;  it  seems  to  happen  so  that  we  are  together  a  great  deal. 


232  MAKING   THE    CHILDREN    SOMETHING. 

We  had  no  sooner  opened  the  barn  door,  than  away  ran  a  hen 
from  a  pile  of  fresh  straw,  cackling  so  loud  that  she  got  one  or 
two  roosters  to  cackling  with  her,  and  peeping  into  the  straw- 
heap,  there  was  a  nest  full  of  white,  warm  eggs  ;  we  took  out 
nine,  leaving  one,  which  Cliff  called  the  nest  egg,  and  returned, 
to  the  surprise  of  Aunt  Margaret,  who  had  not  expected  us  so 
soon.  She  gave  me  a  bowl  and  told  me  to  break  six  of  the 
eggs  and  beat  them  well ;  and  when  I  seated  myself  on  the 
porch  with  the  bowl  in  my  lap,  Joshua  brought  his  chair  near 
me  and  began  to  talk  ;  and  seeing  him,  Cliff  said,  a  little  spite- 
fully, I  thought,  that  he  would  go  to  the  field,  and  rake  hay — 
he  guessed  he  could  do  a  little  good  with  one  hand. 

"  I  had  the  eggs  soon  ready,  and  Aunt  Margaret,  measuring 
some  sugar  and  flour,  baked  the  nicest  pound-cake  you  ever 
saw — it  was  not  like  those  we  buy  at  home  at  all.  We  had 
spring  chickens  and  an  apple-pudding  for  dinner,  the  latter 
eaten  with  a  sauce  of  cream.  I  wish  you  were  both  here  for  a 
week — I  think  you  would  feel  like  new-made  butterflies — I  do  ; 
I  have  thrown  away  my  corsets,  and  for  two  days  have  not 
tried  to  make  my  hair  curl.  Uncle  Wentworth  says,  if  it  is  not 
the  nature  of  it,  it  will  only  make  it  dry  and  harsh  to  twist  it 
into  curl.  At  three  o'clock  Aunt  Margaret  and  I  were  ready 
— that  is  the  fashionable  hour  of  visiting  in  the  country — and 
Aunt  Margaret  wrapped  the  cake  in  a  napkin  and  carried  it 
with  her  :  not  but  that  Mrs.  Bell  would  have  enough  and  to  spare, 
she  said ;  but  that  her  pound-cakes  were  a  little  better  than 
most  folks  made,  if  she  did  say  it  herself.  I  forgot  to  tell  you  in 
its  proper  place,  that  I  carried  home  from  Uncle  John's  a  half 
peck  of  apples,  tied  in  a  handkerchief,  and  hung  on  the  horn 
of  my  saddle,  and  that  Cliff  carried  as  many  potatoes — enough 


MAKING   THE    CHILDREN    SOMETHING.  233 

for  us  to  taste,  Uncle  John  said.  Aunt  Margaret  wore  her  new 
cap  and  a  nicely  washed  and  ironed  dress  of  small  brown  and 
white  checks,  a  white  silk  shawl  on  her  neck,  and  a  close  fitting 
grey  bonnet.  I  wore  the  pink  gingham  with  the  plain  skirt  ; 
I  did  not  like  to  wear  ruffles,  because  I  knew  Mary  Bell  would 
not  have  them.  I  was  careful  to  be  tidy  ;  but  with  a  rose  in 
my  plain  hair  I  looked  quite  stylish  enough,  Aunt  Margaret 
said. 

"  We  went  through  the  gate  by  the  stone  bridge,  and  along 
the  path  by  the  run,  round  the  base  of  the  hill,  and  were  there. 
Mrs.  Bell  and  Mary  were  at  the  door  looking  for  us.  The  house 
where  they  live  is  very  small,  having  only  two  rooms,  made  of 
logs — but  whitewashed  within  and  without,  and  looking  very 
comfortable.  Green  boughs  ornamented  the  wall  and  filled  the 
fire-place ;  some  pots  of  pretty  flowers  were  in  the  windows,  and 
on  the  bed  was  a  red  and  white  patch-work  quilt.  Over  the 
door  was  a  porch  roofed  with  green  boughs,  and  a  dozen  yards 
or  more  from  the  house  was  a  baking  oven,  over  which  a  shed 
was  built,  and  against  which  a  fire  was  burning — for  it  is  here 
that  Mrs.  Bell  does  her  cooking  in  the  summer. 

"  We  took  sewing-work  with  us,  and  all  sat  on  the  shady 
porch  together,  and  worked  till  sunset,  when  our  hostess  set 
about  preparing  the  tea-table.  Mary  was  joyous  and  full  of  life 
during  the  afternoon,  but  her  spirits  flagged  when  it  was  time 
for  the  schoolmaster,  who  did  not  come.  I  too  was  disappointed, 
seeing  that  Joshua  came  alone. 

"  The  table  was  kept  waiting  till  nearly  dark,  and  Mary  and  I 
walked  out  to  the  bridge,  and  looked  down  the  lane — in  vain — 
we  saw  no  Mr.  Hillburn.  We  saw  Cliff  bringing  the  cattle  to 
the  spring  ;  he  waved  his  straw  hat  to  us,  but  shook  his  head 


234  MAKING   THE   CHILDREN   SOMETHING. 

to  indicate  that  he  was  not  coming  :  so  we  went  sorrowfully 
back  I  had  little  appetite  for  all  the  excellences  spread  before 
us  ;  and  Mary  could  not  eat  at  all,  even  of  Aunt  Margaret's 
cake.  Joshua  tried  to  entertain  us,  but  we  could  not  make 
right  answers  to  what  he  said. 

"  Mary  walked  with  us  to  the  gate  on  our  return  home  ;  and 
when  she  turned  back  alone,  I  could  not  keep  the  tears  from 
my  eyes.  She  is  melancholy,  and  most  of  the  time  muses 
silently,  and  I  thiuk  it  is  the  master  she  is  thinking  about. 
Everywhere  the  talk  is  that  he  is  to  go  away  shortly,  and 
whenever  Mary  hears  it  I  can  see  that  it  gives  her  pain.  The 
grass  is  withered  and  the  cornblades  have  lost  much  of  the 
brightness  which  they  had  a  few  days  ago  ;  the  blue  bells  of 
the  morning  glories  scarcely  come  out  at  all ;  everything  is  suf- 
fering for  the  want  of  rain.  It  is  so  close  in  my  room  I  can 
scarcely  breathe.  The  dust  is  settled  all  over  the  rose-bushes, 
and  uncle  is  afraid  his  good  spring  will  dry  pretty  soon.  I  did 
not  see  Cliff  when  we  came  home.  I  can't  think  where  he  is. 
It  grows  late,  and  I  will  stop  writing  for  this  time.  The  light- 
ning runs  along  the  sky  all  the  time,  yet  there  are  no  clouds. 

|  "  SEVENTH     EVENING. 

"  When  I  laid  down  my  pen  the  fifth  evening,  I  expected  to 
resume  it  on  the  sixth  ;  but  how  short-sighted  we  are  at  the 
best.  The  day  following  our  visit  to  Mrs.  Bell's  was  still  and 
sultry  ;  one  black  cloud  lay  low  in  the  west,  and  that  was  all 
— we  sat  on  the  porch  with  fans  nearly  all  the  day,  wishing 
and  wishing  for  rain.  I  have  no  recollection  of  the  day  except 
a  sense  of  suffering  and  a  looking  for  clouds.  We  could  see 


MAKING   THE    CHILDREN    SOMETHING.  235 

the  men  in  the  field  wiping  their  faces  often  and  looking  at  the 
sky,  and  great  clouds  of  dust  going  after  the  teams,  as  one 
after  another  went  along.  About  four  o'clock  a  sudden  breeze 
sprung  up,  turning  the  leaves  of  all  the  trees  wrongside  up, 
and  filling  all  the  air  with  dust  ;  then  came  a  distant  growl  of 
thunder,  then  another  louder  and  rattling  up  the  sky,  with 
clouds,  black  as  midnight,  behind  it.  The  shutters  blew  round, 
striking  violently  together,  troops  of  swallows  came  hurrying 
home  to  the  barn,  and  shortly  after,  the  cattle,  running  one 
after  another,  some  of  them  bellowing,  others  pawing  the  dust, 
or  turning  their  foreheads  up  to  the  fast-blackening  sky.  I  was 
afraid,  as  the  wind  tore  down  the  vines  from  the  porch,  and  a 
flash  of  lightning,  that  almost  struck  us  blind,  was  followed  by 
such  a  clap  of  thunder  as  I  never  heard.  The  rain  now  came 
plashing  down,  sending  the  smoking  dust  up  at  first,  and  in  a 
moment  driving  furiously  against  us,  and  forcing  us  into  the 
house.  We  heard  the  limbs  of  the  trees  cracking  and  falling, 
and  then  the  men  from  the  field  came  running  in.  I  hurried  to 
Cliff,  and  held  fast  his  hand,  and  would  not  let  him  go  away,  I 
was  so  much  afraid  he  would  be  killed.  He  told  me  not  to 
fear — that  the  greatest  danger  was  passed — but  that  he  be- 
lieved the  lightning  had  struck  somewhere  near  by.  He  had 
no  more  than  said  this,  when  Mr.  Peters,  the  neighbor  who 
lives  nearest  to  Uncle  Wentworth,  came  to  the  door,  the  water 
dripping  from  his  hair,  his  clothes  completely  drenched,  and  his 
lip  trembling  :  '  Mrs.  Wentworth,'  he  said,  '  I  want  you  to  get 
ready  as  quick  as  you  can  and  go  with  me  to  Mrs.  Bell's — poor 
Mary  has  been  killed  with  lightning  ;'  and  when  he  had  said  so, 
he  hid  his  face  in  his  good  honest  hands  for  a  minute  before  he 
could  say  any  more.  Presently  he  told  us  that  as  he  was  cross 


236  MAKING   THE   CHILDREN   SOMETHING. 

ing  the  stone  bridge,  on  his  way  home  from  town,  he  heard  his 
dog,  that  always  went  with  him,  howl,  and  turning  his  head* 
saw  him  with  his  fore  paws  lifted  on  the  gate,  and  saw  at  the 
same  time  a  woman  lying  beneath  the  tall  walnut  tree.  He 
hurried  to  her,  and  found  it  to  be  Mary.  '  I  carried  her  in  my 
arms,'  he  said,  'to  her  mother's  house,  and  she  lies  there  on 
the  bed — poor  Mary  1'  And  through  the  driving  rain  Aunt 
Margaret  and  Joshua  went  together  to  the  house  of  death. 
We  were  stunned  speechless,  almost  ;  and  sat  all  together — 
Maria  and  Peter  and  all — till  late  at  night.  Cliff  held  close 
my  trembling  hand,  and  I  am  sure  we  felt  the  worthlessness  of 
everything  in  comparison  with  love. 

"  To-day  was  the  funeral.  Joshua,  who  had  known  Mary 
from  a  baby,  spoke  an  hour  in  such  a  sweet,  comforting  way, 
that  even  Mary's  mother  was  still  to  hear  him.  I  felt,  as  ] 
heard  him,  that  he  was  a  good  man,  and  that  his  hopes  were, 
indeed,  anchored  beyond  this  life.  I  determined  then  more 
than  I  ever  had  to  live  a  good  life,  and  to  grow  in  grace  as 
much  as  I  can.  Mr.  Hillburn  sat  close  by  the  coffin  with  Mrs. 
Bell,  and  his  suffering  seemed  greater  than  he  could  bear. 
Over  Mary's  bosom  lay  beautiful  flowers,  and  when  he  had 
looked  at  her  and  kissed  her,  he  took  up  one  of  them  and 
kissed  that  too  ;  he  would  not  have  done  it  if  she  had  been  alive. 
All  the  school-children  walked  behind  their  mate,  holding  each 
other's  hands  tightly,  and  seeming  to  be  afraid. 

"  When  the  grave-mound  was  heaped  smooth,  Mr.  Hillburn, 
who  had  all  the  time  been  with  Mary's  mother,  walked  with 
her  to  her  lonesome  home.  An  hour  ago  Joshua  was  sent  for., 
and  he  has  not  yet  come  home.  I  cannot  make  it  seem  that 
sweet  Mary  Bell  is  dead  !  Where  is  her  home,  and  what  are 


MAKING  THE    CHILDBEN   SOMETHING.  237 

her  thoughts  now  ?     Surely  she  needed  but  little  change  to  be- 
come an  angel.     Life  is  a  great,  a  solemn  thing. 

"  Cliff  has  just  come  to  my  door,  and  asked  me  to  come 
down  stairs — he  is  so  lonesome,  he  says.  So  for  to-night, 
good  bye. 

"  EIGHTH    EVENINS. 

"  I  asked  Cliff  what  he  would  do  when  I  was  gone,  and  he 
replied  I  must  never  go  away — the  house  was  big  enough  for 
us  all,  and  I  would  never  find  any  one  to  love  me  better  than 
he  did. 

"  The  sun  is  not  yet  set ;  I  came  early  to  write  you,  that  I 
might  have  the  twilight  to  walk  in  the  yard  with  Cliff,  who  is 
impatient  at  a  minute's  absence — he  is  the  best  young  man  in 
the  world. 

"  Aunt  Margaret  told  me  to-day  that  Mr.  Hillburn  told 
Joshua  last  night  the  story  of  his  life,  and  that  it  is  indeed 
true  he  loved  Mary  Bell,  but  that  he  was  pre-determined  to  be- 
come a  missionary,  and  to  leave  behind  him  all  he  loved.  It 
appears,  she  says,  he  designed  it  as  some  atonement  for  what 
he  considers  a  sin  of  early  life.  He  loved  books,  and  was  of  a 
serious  and  thoughtful  turn  of  mind  always  ;  but  his  father, 
contrary  to  his  wishes,  apprenticed  him  to  a  blacksmith,  from 
whom  he  ran  away,  and  by  dint  of  industry  and  perseverance, 
succeeded  in  finally  educating  himself.  But  when  he  thought 
to  return  home  in  triumph,  he  found  his  bright  anticipations 
turned  into  the  bitterest  sorrow — his  parents  had  died  in 
extreme  poverty,  crushed  to  the  earth  by  what  they  esteemed 
the  ingratitude  and  worthlessness  of  their  son.  Penitent,  and 
broken-hearted  almost,  he  resolved  to  consecrate  his  life  to 


238  MAKING    THE    CHILDREN   SOMETHING. 

some  good  work  ;  and  with  the  view  of  enabling  himself  to 
prosecute  his  studies  for  the  ministry,  undertook  the  school  in 
the  neighborhood  of  Uncle  Wentworth's,  where  the  sweetness 
and  gentleness  of  Mary  Bell  quite  won  his  heart  ;  but  he 
guarded  his  foregone  resolve,  and  never  spoke  that  sentiment 
which  she,  nevertheless,  silently  received  and  responded  to. 
Aunt  Margaret  thinks  it  likely  he  will  remain  with  Mary's* 
mother,  and  continue  the  school  for  a  year  at  least  ;  but  he 
scarcely  seems  to  have  plans  or  purposes  left.  She  says  I  am 
sure  he  meant  for  the  best,  and  how  sadly  has  it  all  ended  ! 

"  When  Uncle  Wentworth  came  home  from  the  near  village 
to-day,  he  brought  me  a  letter  from  the  post-office  there,  and 
on  opening  it  I  found  it  was  from  Albert,  telling  me  that  he 
had  run  away  from  home,  and  engaged  to  ride  the  horses  of  a 
canal-boat.  I  therefore  hasten  to  let  you  know,  that  you  may 
not  be  so  much  alarmed  about  him. 

"  MIDNIGHT. 

"Here  I  am  in  my  pretty,  quiet  room  again.  The  moon  is 
smiling  out  of  the  sky  as  gently  and  lovingly  as  though  she 
looked  not  on  fallen  harvests  and  broken  boughs,  where  the 
storm  went  yesterday.  The  stars  are  as  thick  as  the  dew  in  the 
grass  almost,  and  I  never  saw  them  so  bright.  I  have  been 
sitting  at  the  open  window,  and  as  I  looked  out  upon  the  beau- 
tiful world,  I  felt  more  humbly  grateful,  more  truly  and  rev- 
erently prayerful,  than  I  ever  felt  till  to-night.  Heaven  has 
been  very  good  to  me  always  :  but  especially  so,  I  think,  in 
bringing  me  to  this  pleasant  home,  and  making  me  loved  and 
useful  here. 

"  As  I  promised,  I  joined  Cliff  at  twilight,  and  we  walked 


MAKING   THE    CHILDREN    SOMETHING.  239 

among  the  flowers,  cutting  off  the  broken  limbs  and  picking 
off  the  blossoms  which  the  storm  had  broken  to  pieces.  It 
was  a  sweet  silent  evening,  and  we  were  very  happy,  and  yet 
sad  too,  thinking  and  talking  of  Mary  and  Mr.  Hillburn. 

"  We  sat  together  on  the  stoiie  door-step,  and  made  pictures 
of  the  happy  home  they  might  have  had — a  cottage  in  the 
woods,  where  Mary  might  have  milked  the  cow  and  tended  the 
flowers,  while  the  schoolmaster  might  have  continued  to  be  a 
schoolmaster  year  after  year,  teaching  the  children,  and  then 
the  children's  children,  and  so  going  on  happily  and  usefully  to 
the  end. 

"  '  But,'  said  Cliff,  looking  very  close  in  my  face,  '  if  the 
master  had  left  teaching,  which  is  wearisome,  and  had  become  a 
farmer,  having  some  land  of  his  own,  and  fine  cattle  ;  and  if 
Mary  had  been  a  little  more  like  Annie  ;  what  a  heaven  they 
might  have  made  ?'  And  when  I  said,  '  Yes,'  he  asked  me 
why  we  could  not  make  just  so  sweet  a  home  as  we  had 
pictured  ?  For  the  life  of  me,  I  could  see  nothing  in  the  way ; 
so  do  not  be  troubled  any  more  about  making  something  of  me  ; 
for  before  you  hear  from  me  again,  I  shall  have  made  a  farmer's 
wife  of  myself." 


THE   APPLE   CUTTING-. 


SUKELY  they  need  our  pity  who  are  so  intent  on  ambitious 
projects — on  what  are  falsely  termed  the  great  aims  of  life — 
that  they  cannot  stop  to  plant  by  the  way  some  little  flowers 
of  affection. 

For  myself,  though  I  had  power  to  make  the  wisdom  of  the 
past  and  the  unrevealed  truths  of  God  my  own,  I  should  feel 
life  to  be  an  incompleteness,  a  failure,  if  there  were  no  eyes  to 
gather  new  light  "  when  I  looked  down  upon  them,  and  when 
they  looked  up  to  me." 

Whether  blind  contact  and  the  strong  necessity  of  loving 
something  are  usually  chiefly  instrumental  in  drawing  heart  to 
heart,  I  know  not,  but  in  the  little  story  I  have  to  tell  they 
may  take  some  credit,  I  think. 

Years  ago,  no  matter  how  many,  there  came  to  live  in  our 
neighborhood  a  widow  lady  of  the  name  of  Goodhue.  Her 
husband,  shortly  after  purchasing  the  farm  to  which  she  and  her 
daughter,  Louisa,  came  to  live,  was  attacked  with  cholera,  and 
died  ;  so  the  two  ladies,  and  the  three  servants  whom  they 
brought  with  them,  made  up  the  family.  I  well  remember  the 
much  notice  they  excited  at  church  the  first  Sunday  their 
heavy  and  elaborate  mourning  filled  one  of  the  homely  slips. 

240 


THE    APPLE    CUTTING.  241 

Even  the  young  clergyman,  it  was  thought  by  one  or  two  of 
our  gossips  (and  what  village  has  not  its  gossips  ?)  directed 
his  consolatory  remarks  almost  entirely  towards  the  new 
comers,  only  once  or  twice  remembering  the  three  poor  orphans 
who  sat  in  the  rear  of  the  church,  thinking  of  the  lonesome 
grave  of  their  poor  drunken  father,  whom  nobody  had  wept 
for  but  them.  "  We  suppose,"  said  the  aforesaid  gossips,  "  he 
couldn't  see  through  the  thick  black  veils  of  the  great  Mrs. 
Goodhue  and  daughter,  to  the  scantily  trimmed  straw  hat  of 
Sally  Armstrong."  Others  there  were,  however,  who  said  that 
brother  Long  had  preached  a  good  feeling  sermon  for  the 
drunkard,  and  that  he  had  told  the  children  the  sins  of  their 
father  would  be  visited  upon  them  to  the  third  and  fourth  gene- 
rations, and  they  were  sure  the  children  and  everybody  else 
ought  to  be  satisfied. 

They  looked  almost  like  sisters,  mother  aud  daughter,  peo- 
ple said,  and  indeed  it  was  hard  to  believe  there  were  twenty 
years  difference  in  their  ages,  for  the  elder  lady  was  the 
younger  in  behavior,  and  altogether  the  most  stylish  in  ap- 
pearance. Her  manner  was  set  down  against  her  for  pride  ; 
but  I  suspect  she  had  not  more  than  most  other  persons,  though 
its  manifestations  were  more  showy. 

"  I  wonder  which  one  the  preacher  is  trying  to  comfort," 
said  the  neighbors,  "  Louisa  or  her  mother  ;"  for  whether  or 
not  their  veils  had  blinded  him  on  the  occasion  of  their  first 
appearing  at  church,  it  was  certain  that  he  availed  himself  of 
the  earliest  opportunity  of  making  their  personal  acquaintance, 
and  Aunt  Caty  Martin,  who  nursed  all  the  sick,  helped  to  make 
all  the  shrouds,  and  cook  all  the  wedding  dinners  in  our  neigh- 
borhood, remarked  laughingly  one  day,  as  she  was  visiting  at 

11 


242  THE    APPLE    CUTTING. 

onr  house,  the  while  she  hemmed  a  checked  apron,  that  she 
expected  to  need  it,  before  long,  in  the  preparation  of  the 
biggest  dinner  she  had  ever  cooked.  It  was  not  worth  while 
to  call  names,  she  said,  but  it  was  generally  thought  that  a 
certain  young  preacher  and  a  certain  young  lady,  whose  name 
began  with  L.,  would  make  a  match  before  long. 

Wiser  folks  than  Aunt  Caty  have  been  mistaken — but  let  me 
not  anticipate. 

It  was  March  when  the  Goodhues  came  to  our  neighborhood, 
and  as  rough  and  unpromising  a  March  as  I  remember  ever  to 
have  seen.  The  old  house  to  which  they  came  looked  especially 
desolate,  for  it  had  been  vacant  for  a  year,  and  the  long  un- 
pruned  cherry  trees  and  late-budding  elms  creaked  against 
the  broken  windows,  and  dragged  along  the  mossy  roof,  dis- 
mally enough.  The  wind  had  not  whistled  up  a  violet,  and  no 
wood-flower,  between  the  layers  of  frosty  leaves,  had  pushed 
its  way  into  the  light.  Mr.  Goodhue  had  proposed  to  build  a 
fine  new  house  directly  in  front  of  the  old  one.  The  digging 
of  the  cellar  had  been  •  accomplished,  but  the  work  was  inter- 
rupted by  his  death,  and  the  great  clay  pit  stood  there,  partly 
filled  with  water,  out  of  which  the  black  snakes  lifted  their 
ugly  heads,  and  into  which  the  frogs  dashed  themselves  when  a 
step  drew  near. 

It  looked  unpromising  when  they  came,  as  I  said,  and  during 
the  summer  the  appearance  of  things  was  but  little  bettered. 

The  widow  and  her  daughter  had  never  lived  in  the  country, 
and  knew  nothing,  of  course,  about  managing  a  farm,  but  like 
many  city  bred  people  supposed  rural  life  to  be  a  holiday. 
They  began  energetically,  to  be  sure  ;  in  addition  to  the  three 
servants  they  brought,  they  hired  workmen  enough  to  cultivate 


THE   APPLE    CUTTING.  243 

the  grounds,  and  put  the  fences,  barns,  and  orchards,  all  in 
complete  order  ;  but  there  was  no  directing  hand  among  them, 
and  the  consequence  was,  nothing  was  done  properly,  nor  in 
season,  and  after  a  large  expenditure,  with  small  gain,  the  lady 
dismissed  her  workmen  and  offered  the  farm  for  sale. 

She  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  her  good  husband  had 
for  once  erred  in  judgment,  and  bought  the  poorest  land  that 
could  have  been  found  in  the  whole  county. 

In  the  time  of  garden-making,  a  garden  was  made  ;  but  the 
weeds  grew  faster  than  the  vegetables,  and  the  inexperienced 
servants  pulled  them  up  together  ;  so  the  ground  was  ploughed 
and  sowed  anew,  but  the  second  gardening  was  worso  than  the 
first-^-the  dry  season  came  on,  and  the  work  was  all  lost. 

"  Really,  Louisa,"  said  the  widow,  one  morning,  as  she  held 
up  her  mourning  dress,  heavy  at  the  bottom  with  dew  and 
dust,  "  I  wish  I  could  get  rid  of  the  old  place,  on  any  terms. 
I  would  willingly  sacrifice  two  or  three  thousand  to  be  rid 
of  it." 

"  0  mother,  I  do  wish  you  could  sell  or  give  it  away,"  re- 
plied Louisa — "  it  is  the  dreariest  place  I  was  ever  in  in  my 
life.  If  it  wasn't  for  Parson  Long  I  don't  know  what  we 
should  do,  for  I  believe  he  is  about  the  only  civilized  man  in 
the  neighborhood.  And,  by  the  way,"  she  continued,  "  he 
has  asked  me  to  ride  to  the  city  with  him  to-morrow,  and  come 
home  by  moonlight.  Won't  it  be  sentimental  ?"  And  the 
young  girl  laughed  heartily  at  the  idea  of  a  sentimental  ride  by 
moonlight  with  the  parson,  who  was  really  a  person  of  fine 
education  and  cultivated  tastes.  In  all  our  neighborhood  there 
was  no  other  gentleman  with  whom  she  for  a  moment  thought 
of  associating  on  terms  of  equality,  and  as  for  marrying  one  of 


244  THE    APPLE    CUTTING. 

the  "  rustic  bumpkins,"  as  she  called  the  young  men,  why,  she 
scorned  the  suggestion. 

The  summer  was  gone  at  the  time  of  this  little  conversation 
between  Louisa  and  her  mother,  and  the  warm  September  sun 
pierced  not  between  the  thick  boughs  of  the  cherry  trees  which 
still  remained  unpruned,  for  though  Parson  Long,  in  kid  gloves, 
had  been  seen  cutting  the  dead  limbs  from  among  the  roses 
and  lilacs,  he  had  not  ventured  to  touch  the  trees  ;  and  in 
shady  and  damp  isolation  the  old  house  stood,  and  there,  in 
discontented  and  thriftless  seclusion,  the  two  ladies  lived. 

They  were  in  the  midst  of  rather  an  uncharitable  conversa- 
tion about  the  neighborhood,  which  they  termed  "  horrid" — the 
simple-hearted  people  were  "  good  enough  in  their  way,"  as 
they  said,  but  persons  in  whom  they  could  by  no  possibility 
have  any  interest — when  they  were  interrupted  by  a  loud 
and  confident  rap  on  the  front  door — an  unusual  thing — for 
most  of  the  country  people,  who  ventured  there  at  all,  made 
their  entrance  at  the  side  door,  as  the  family  were  not  supposed 
to  be  in  the  parlor  of  week  days — or,  at  least,  other  families 
were  not. 

The  servant  who  opened  the  door  came  presently  and,  with 
a  smile  of  peculiar  significance,  announced  Mr.  Warren  Arm- 
strong. 

"  And  pray,  Louisa,  who  is  he  ?"  asked  the  mother,  her  face 
reddening  as  she  went  on  to  say,  "  not  the  son  of  the  Widow 
Armstrong,  who  lives  in  the  cabin  across  the  field  ?" 

"  Even  so,  mother,"  answered  the  proud  girl,  arranging  her 
curls  and  straightening  her  lace  kerchief  in  mockery,  and  as  if 
she  feared  to  enter  the  presence  of  so  distinguished  a  person- 
age ;  "  you  see  our  kind  neighbors  are  determined  to  overcome 


THE   APPLE   CUTTING.  245 

our  timidity.  Well,  I  am  sorry  they  give  themselves  such 
useless  trouble" — and  turning  to  the  servant  she  said,  "  Did 
his  honor  ask  for  mother,  or  me,  or  you  ?" 

"  You,  miss,"  replied  the  maid,  her  smile  this  time  widening 
into  a  grin. 

"  Perhaps  he  wants  me  to  help  his  sister  Sally  spin,"  contin- 
ued Louisa,  talking  partly  to  herself  and  partly  to  her  mother  ; 
"  I  heard  the  thunder  of  her  wheel,  the  other  day,  when  Par- 
son Long  and  I  were  walking  in  the  woods." 

"  And  what  did  he  say  of  them  ?"  inquired  Mrs.  Goodhue, 
looking  up  from  her  embroidery. 

"  Oh,"  he  said  "  they  were  goodish  people — poor,  but  respec- 
table, in  short,  and  that,  since  the  old  man  went  the  way  of 
all  the  living — which  he  did  last  spring,  having  been  a  drunk- 
ard for  twenty  years — they  seem  to  be  increasing  in  worldly 
goods." 

"  Well,  dear,  don't  detain  the  young  man  any  longer,"  said 
Mrs.  Goodhue. 

"  You  are  considerate,  but  no  doubt  his  time  is  precious.  I 
should  have  remembered  that — is  it  the  time  of  sheep-shearing, 
or  potato  planting,  or  what  season  is  it  with  farmers  ?  and  she 
ran  laughingly  towards  the  parlor,  waiting  only  to  say,  "I 
wish  you  could  see  mother  Armstrong — her  face  is  browner 
than  our  cook's,  and  she  dresses  so  queer." 

Her  face,  as  pretty  and  genial  a  one -as  you  would  wish  to 
see,  in  its  usual  expression,  grew  severe  and  haughty  as  she 
opened  the  door  and  appeared  before  Mr.  Armstrong  with  her 
stateliest  step. 

He  was  leaning  carelessly  over  the  rosewood  table,  and 
looking  into  a  volume  which  adorned  it.  One  hand  pushing 


246  THE   APPLE    CUTTING. 

back  the  brown  curls  from  his  brown  eyes,  and  the  other  rest- 
ing on  the  brim  of  his  straw  hat  which  hung  over  his  knee,  as 
indolently  graceful  as  though  he  had  been  used  to  fine  books 
and  fine  furniture  all  his  life. 

"  Did  you  inquire  for  me,  sir  ?"  asked  the  lady,  in  a  business- 
like way,  but  as  though  she  could  hardly  think  it  possible  that 
he,  had  inquired  for  her.  "  Pardon  me,"  said  the  young  man, 
as  he  bowed  with  natural  gracefulness,  "  though  we  have  had 
no  formal  introduction,  I  could  not  fail  of  knowing  Miss  Good- 
hue.  My  name  is  Armstrong — Warren  Armstrong." 

Miss  Goodhue  said  she  was  happy,  and  sinking  to  a  sofa, 
motioned  him  to  be  seated  again.  He  declined,  however,  and 
did  his  errand  so  simply  and  politely  that  she  found  herself  say- 
ing, "Pray,  accept  a  seat,  Mr.  Armstrong,"  before  he  had 

concluded. 

In  a  minute,  and  without  having  made  any  remarks  about 

the  weather,  or  asked  her  how  many  cows  they  milked,  he  was 
gone  ;  and  slily  pulling  the  curtain  back,  Miss  Louisa  Good 
hue  was  watching  him  down  the  path. 

"  Well,  daughter,  what  did  the  clodhopper  want  ?"  asked  the 
mother  directly. 

"  It  seems  to  me  you  might  call  him  by  his  name." 

"  Indeed  I" 

Louisa  laughed  gaily,  partly  to  cover  her  confusion  and  part- 
ly at  the  unintentional  earnestness  with  which  she  had  spoken  ; 
and  saying  he  seemed  a  civil  young  person,  explained  that  he 
had  called  to  ask  her  to  come  to  an  "  apple  cutting,"  at  his 
mother's  house,  on  the  evening  of  the  day  after  the  next. 

"  And  are  you  going,  my  dear  ?"  asked  the  mother  deferen- 
tially. 


THE   APPLE   CUTTING.  247 

"  Pshaw  !  What  do  you  suppose  I  want  to  mix  with  such 
a  set  of  people  for  ?"  And  going  to  the  window,  Louisa  watch- 
ed the  clonds  with  great  interest,  apparently. 

There  was  a  brief  silence,  broken  by  the  mother's  asking 
if  Mr.  Armstrong  wore  cowhide  boots  and  homespun,  or  in 
what  sort  of  costume  he  appeared. 

"  Eeally,  mother,  I  don't  know  what  he  wore,  replied  the 
girl,  ingenuously — I  saw  nothing  but  his  smile  and  his  eyes." 

Mrs.  Goodhue  laughed,  and  said  she  would  buy  a  spinning- 
wheel  for  her  child. 

"  Why,  mother,  you  grow  facetious,"  and  tying  on  her  sun- 
bonnet,  Louisa  took  up  a  volume  and  set  off  towards  the  woods, 
either  by  choice  or  accident  turning  towards  the  one  which  lay 
nearest  Mrs.  Armstrong's. 

The  following  morning  the  sun  came  up  large  and  red,  disap- 
pearing shortly  behind  a  great  bank  of  black  clouds  ;  the 
leaves  dropped  off  silently,  the  air  was  close  and  oppressive, 
and  the  water  dried  fast  in  the  big  clay  pit. 

Louisa  asked  everybody  if  they  thought  it  would  rain,  and 
everybody  said  they  thought  it  would.  Still  she  could  not  see 
any  signs  of  rain  herself,  she  said  ;  if  Parson  Long  called  for 
her,  she  believed  she  would  go  to  town  ;  and  by  way  of  test- 
ing her  mother's  views,  she  added  that  she  wanted  to  buy  a  yard 
of  gingham  to  make  an  apron  to  wear  to  the  "  apple-cutting." 

"  Do,  dear,  go  if  you  want  to,"  replied  the  mother  ;  "  it  will 
be  a  harmless  pastime  enough,  and  no  doubt  gratifying  to  our 
simple  neighbors." 

Louisa  said  she  was  only  jesting  about  the  apron  but  that, 
in  truth,  Warren  Armstrong  had  quite  a  little  manner  of  his 
own,  and  the  prettiest  brown  curls  and  eyes  1 


248  THE   APPLE   CUTTING. 

In  due  season  the  clergyman  called,  mingling,  a  little  more 
than  was  his  wont,  a  worldly  interest  with  his  soberly-gracious 
manner. 

His  well-fed  black  horse  pricked  up  his  ears  and  stamped 
impatiently,  but  he  was  not  in  gayer  mood  than  Louisa.  She 
didn't  know  why,  she  said,  but  her  spirits  had  not  been  so 
buoyant  since  they  came  to  the  old  farm. 

The  lane  leading  down  past  Mrs.  Armstrong's  house  looked 
quiet  and  cool  between  its  border  of  oaks  and  elms,  and  she 
wondered  she  had  never  gone  in  that  direction  for  a  walk — 
she  would  the  very  first  time  she  went  out  again. 

This  purpose  she  expressed  to  Mr.  Long,  by  way  of  assuring 
herself  that  she  could  walk  by  the  house  of  Warren  Armstrong, 
or  talk  of  it  as  freely  as  of  anything  else,  if  she  chose. 

"  You  seem  intent  on  the  landscape,  Miss  Goodhue,"  he 
remarked,  in  a  tone  of  dissatisfaction,  for  she  had  kept  her  face 
turned  away  longer  than  was  flattering  to  his  vanity. 

"  What  did  you  say  ?"  she  replied,  abstractedly,  after  a  min- 
ute or  two,  during  which  she  had  been  interesting  herself  in 
the  five  cows  that  stood  about  the  spring  under  the  oak  before 
Mrs.  Armstrong's  house — and  perhaps,  too,  in  the  light  cart 
that,  with  its  white  linen  cover  and  smart  grey  horse,  was 
standing  by  the  door,  and  about  which  Sally  and  her  mother, 
and  a  little  boy,  were  busy  handing  in  pails  and'  baskets,  etc., 
etc.  Warren  was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 

"  What  were  you  saying  ?"  she  asked,  having  completed  her 
survey. 

"  Nothing — at  least,  nothing  that  could  interest  you,"  and 
the  clergyman  suddenly  discovered  that  the  management  of  his 
horse  required  both  hands,  though  one  had  previously  rested 


THE   APPLE   CUTTING.  249 

on  that  part  of  the  carriage  seat  against  which  Miss  Good- 
hue  leaned. 

But  little  cared  the  lady  whether  he  drove  with  one  hand  or 
two,  and,  with  the  exception  of  one  or  two  common-place 
remarks,  five  or  six  miles  were  driven  over  in  silence. 

At  length  Mr.  Long  fell  back  upon  his  clerical  prerogative, 
and  asked  Louisa,  in  a  fatherly  sort  of  way,  if  she  didn't  think 
the  flowers  in  her  bonnet  unbecoming — especially  with  mourn- 
ing habiliments. 

"  No,"  she  replied,  tossing  her  willful  head  ;  "  I  think  they 
are  pretty." 

"  Vanity  and  vexation  of  spirit,"  he  answered. 

He  next  inquired  if  she  found  prayer  the  greatest  consola- 
tion for  earthly  afflictions,  saying  that  was  the  true  test  of 
a  Christian  spirit. 

"  Sometimes  I  do,  and  sometimes  I  don't,"  replied  the  saucy 
girl,  "I  make  no  pretensions  to  perfection."  And  abruptly 
changing  the  subject,  she  said  she  fancied  she  could  drive  as 
well  as  he,  and  playfully  taking  the  reins  from  his  hand,  the 
gay  black  horse  passed  over  the  remaining  distance  so  fast  as 
to  preclude  conversation. 

"  Call  as  early  as  six  o'clock,  if  possible ;  I  am  fearful  of  the 
night  air,"  was  the  request  of  Louisa,  as  Mr.  Long  set  her 
down  at  the  door  of  her  friend,  Mrs.  Jackson. 

The  clergyman  replied  civilly,  and  yet  in  a  way  that  indi- 
cated he  had  some  interests  of  his  own  which  might  conflict 
with  hers,  and  which  he  should  be  at  no  pains  to  set 
aside. 

Truth  is,  Louisa  was  in  no  haste  to  be  at  home,  neither  was 
she  afraid  of  the  night  air — nor  had  the  young  man  interests 

11* 


250  THE   APPLE    CUTTING. 

which  he  preferred  to  hers.     Both  were  pettish,  and  willing  to 
tyrannize  in  a  small  way. 

So  they  parted — the  one  saying,  "  Pray  don't  give  yourself 
trouble,"  and  the  other  replying,  "  to  serve  you  at  any  sacrifice 
would  be  a  pleasure." 

Mrs.  Jackson  was  one  of  those  sweet,  loving  women  who  find 
sermons  in  stones  and  good  in  everything.  Instinctively  a  lady 
as  well  as  by  birth  and  education,  she  recognized  the  natural 
excellence  and  refinement  in  others,  nor  did  she  ever  fear  of 
compromising  herself  by  associating  with  persons  whose  hands 
were  less  white,  or  whose  purses  were  less  heavy  than  her 
own. 

"  Let  me  see,"  she  said,  pausing  with  puzzled  expression,  as 
if  she  were  settling  some  matter  of  great  moment  in  her  mind, 
after  asking  all  about  the  neighborhood.  "  My  paragon,  Mr. 
Armstrong  must  live  somewhere  near  you.  Do  you  know  a 
family  of  that  name  ?" 

A  family  of  that  name  lived  very  near  them,  Louisa  said — 
poor,  but  good  people,  she  believed. 

"  You  may  well  say  good  people,"  replied  Mrs.  Jackson, 
"  there  is  no  family  of  my  acquaintance  I  like  better.  Warren 
and  Sally,  and  the  old  lady,  and  timid  little  Moses — I  like  them 
all." 

Here  she  proceeded  to  relate  how  she  had  first  found  them 
out  by  the  excellence  of  the  butter  they  brought  to  market ; 
how  she  had  engaged  a  regular  supply,  and  so  had  made  friends 
of  the  entire  family. 

"  Almost  every  week  they  send  me,"  she  said,  "  some  fresh 
eggs,  or  vegetables,  or  some  other  nice  things  they  have,  and  I 
acknowledge  the  favor  by  filling  the  basket  with  something 


THE   APPLE    CUTTING.  251 

which  they  have  not.  When  they  come  to  town,  they  eat 
dinner  with  me,  and  I  am  going  to  the  country  to  stay  a  week, 
and  eat  bread  and  milk,  and  apples  fresh  from  the  trees.  Oh, 
they  are  dear,  delightful  people — how  much  you  have  lost  in 
not  knowing  them." 

Mrs.  Jackson's  great  wealth  and  high  social  position  embold. 
ened  Louisa  to  say  she  had  actually  seen  Warren  Armstrong, 
and  spoken  with  him  ;  that,  in  fact,  he  had  asked  her  to  a  little 
party,  at  his  mother's  house.  She  did  not  say  "  apple  cutting," 
lest  Mrs.  Jackson  might  be  shocked  ;  but  that  lady  knew  all 
about  it,  and,  opening  the  cupboard,  showed  her  a  huge  fresh 
pound-cake  which  she  designed  sending  for  the  occasion,  by 
Warreu,  whom  she  was  every  moment  expecting  to  bring  her 
the  week's  butter. 

"  Go  to-morrow  night,  by  all  means,"  she  continued  ;  "  they 
have  shown  a  disposition  to  give  you  pleasure,  and  you  would 
not  pain  them,  I  am  sure,  even  though  it  afford  you  no  special 
gratification  to  go  ;"  and  putting  her  arms  about  the  plump 
shoulders  of  Louisa,  she  repeated,  "  you  will  go,  I  am  sure." 

"Would  you,  now,  really?"  said  the  girl,  looking, up;  "it 
will  be  so  queer,  and  with  such  a  set  of  people." 

"Why,  the  Armstrongs  are  not  queer,  but  here  comes  War- 
ren"— and  Mrs.  Jackson  left  her  guest  to  meet  and  welcome 
him.  Louisa  could  hear  their  voices  distinctly,  and  much  jest- 
ing and  good-natured  talk  about  trifles  there  seemed  between 
them,  as  baskets  were  unpacked,  jars  were  untied,  and  jugs  of 
milk  were  emptied.  She  would  gladly  have  joined  them,  but 
timidity,  for  almost  the  first  time  in  her  life,  kept  her  in  her 
seat ;  and,  before  she  could  overcome  it,  she  heard  the  firm  step 
sound  along  the  paved  walk,  as  the  young  man  went  away. 


252  THE   APPLE   CUTTING. 

When  Mrs.  Jackson  returned,  she  wore  a  disappointed  ex 
pression.  Warren  Armstrong  could  not  dine  with  her,  he 
would  only  call  for  a  minute  in  the  evening,  for  the  cake  and 
the  bottle  of  yeast  which  she  would  have  ready  for  him. 

Louisa  wondered  what  time  he  would  return,  though  she 
didn't  know  as  she  cared  about  seeing  him  ;  but  she  had  told 
Mr.  Long  to  call  at  six  o'clock.  Possibly  she  might  go  to  the 
"  apple- cutting."  She  didn't  think  she  should  ;  nevertheless, 
amongst  her  purchases  that  day  was  a  yard  of  black  and  white 
gingham,  suitable  for  an  apron. 

The  clouds,  which  had  been  slowly  sailing  about  all  day, 
intermingled  at  sunset,  and  the  sky  was  presently  a  dull 
leaden  mass.  Louisa  looked  out  anxiously — six  o'clock  went 
by  ;  seven  came,  and  with  it  a  slow,  drizzling  rain,  which 
promised  to  continue  through  the  night. 

"  If  Mr.  Long  had  come  at  six,  as  I  requested,"  she  said, 
"  we  might  have  been  at  home.  He  wants  to  take  his  own 
tune,  that  is  all,"  and  she  pressed  her  flushed  face  to  the  pane, 
tapping  violently  with  her  little  foot  on  the  carpet. 

Suddenly  the  flush  deepened,  as  a  hearty,  good-humored 
voice,  not  altogether  unfamiliar,  gave  the  salutation  of  the 
evening. 

Louisa  said  she  was  not  expecting  him  (for  it  was  Warren) ; 
she  was  watching  for  Mr.  Long,  who  had  brought  her  to  town, 
and  whom  she  had  expected  an  hour  ago. 

Mr.  Armstrong  manifested  no  confusion  ;  but,  taking  off  his 
hat,  turned  his  face  skyward,  and,  shaking  the  rain-drops  from 
his  curls,  with  a  pretty  carelessness,  said  he  was  sorry  for  her 
disappointment ;  that  her  friend  would  certainly  not  detain  her 
much  longer  and  that  his  carriage  was  doubtless  a  sure  protec- 


THE   APPLE   CUTTING.  253 

tion  from  the  storm,  which  he  trusted  would  not  be  very  vio- 
lent ;  and  with  a  bow  which  seemed  to  indicate  a  leave-taking 
of  her,  he  passed  to  the  rear  portion  of  the  house,  where  Mrs. 
Jackson's  kindly  preparations  awaited  him. 

"  I  wish  he  had  only  asked  me  to  ride  home  with  him," 
thought  Louisa.  "  I  am  under  no  obligations  to  Mr.  Long, 
that  I  should  wait  here  all  night  ;"  and,  moving  restlessly  to 
and  fro,  she  saw  the  young  man  passing  from  the  kitchen  to  the 
street,  and  placing  in  the  wagon,  jugs,  baskets,  and  boxes 
again,  as  regardless  of  her  as  of  the  Newfoundland  that  lay  at 
the  doorway. 

"  I  could  go  with  him  just  as  well  as  not,"  she  thought ; 
"  his  wagon-cover  would  protect  me  from  the  rain,  and  if  it 
didn't,  why,  a  little  rain  wouldn't  hurt  me — and  then  I  should 
be  revenged  upon  Mr.  Long." 

But  while  she  thus  thought,  the  preparations  were  completed  ; 
and,  with  the  rain-drops  standing  bright  in  his  hair,  and  his 
ungloved  hands  wet  and  red,  Mr.  Armstrong  was  climbing  into 
the  wagon. 

"  Would  it  inconvenience  you  much  to  take  me  ?"  called  an 
unsteady  voice,  and  throwing  up  the  sash,  Louisa  leaned  anxi- 
ously from  the  window.  The  youth,  for  he  was  scarcely  more 
— something  past  twenty-one,  perhaps — was  on  the  ground  in  a 
moment.  His  poor  accommodation  was  quite  at  her  service  ; 
he  only  regretted  it  was  not  better.  The  storm  looked  threat- 
ening ;  had  she  not  better  consider  ? 

"  I  will  pay  you  whatever  you  ask,"  said  Louisa,  coldly, 
piqued  at  the  young  man's  indifference,  for  he  stood  with  one 
hand  resting  on  his  stout  grey  and  the  other  held  discouraging 
out  into  the  rain. 


254  THE   APPLE    CUTTING. 

"  I  think  we  shall  be  able  to  settle  terms,  Miss  Goodhue," 
he  said,  laughingly,  "  if  not,  we  will  '  leave  it  to  men/  as 
farmers  do  sometimes,  when  they  make  a  trade." 

Louisa  joined  in  the  laugh,  for  his  good  humor  quite  dis- 
armed her,  and,  wrapped  in  Mrs.  Jackson's  great  blanket 
shawl,  she  was  presently  assisted  into  the  wagon. 

Before  they  reached  the  suburbs  it  was  quite  dark,  and  the 
rain,  which  had  been  only  a  drizzle,  fell  in  larger  and  colder 
drops.  The  road  was  muddy  and  broken,  and  a  slow  drive 
unavoidable. 

But,  strange  to  say,  Miss  Goodhue  was  not  afraid  of  the 
night,  nor  the  rain,  nor  the  rough  roads.  Was  it  because  she 
had  retaliated  upon  Mr.  Long  ?  or  because  she  felt  a  greater 
assurance  of  safety  and  protection  than  she  had  ever  felt 
before  ? 

I  know  of  nothing  more  favorable  to  familiar  intercourse 
than  a  rainy  night  and  a  lonesome  old  house,  or  a  lonesome 
road.  Almost  any  two  young  persons,  who  find  each  other 
likeable,  will,  travelling  slowly  through  the  storm,  or  sitting  by 
the  ember 'fire,  open  their  hearts  as  they  would  not  in  the 
inquisitive  noonday,  But  whether  or  not  this  be  generally 
true,  it  was  in  this  particular  instance. 

A  mile  was  not  gone  over  when  the  rain  plashed  through  the 
cover  of  the  wagon.  Mr.  Armstrong  feared  for  the  lady,  and 
she  in  turn  feared  for  him — he  would  really  be  quite  drenched  ; 
her  shawl  was  ample  enough  for  both.  Of  course,  the  young 
man's  fears  were  all  for  her,  not  for  himself ;  he  had  been  used 
to  hardship  and  exposure,  and  she  was  so  delicate,  so  frail. 

I  can't  tell  all  they  said,  for  I  don't  know.  I  wish  I  did, 
believing  it  would  interest  us,  as  it  always  does,  to  read  the 


THE    APPLE    CUTTING.  255 

human  heart ;  but  I  do  know  the  drive  seemed  very  short  to 
both,  notwithstanding  the  ugly  night ;  and  that  Louisa  declared, 
when  Mr.  Armstrong  set  her  down  at  home,  that  she  was  just 
as  dry  as  if  she  had  been  all  the  time  by  the  hearthside.  She 
would  not  suffer,  she  knew  ;  and  Mr.  Armstrong  would  find  her 
the  gayest  of  all  on  the  following  evening. 

"  I  hope  so,"  he  replied  ;  "  I  had  feared  you  would  not  honor 
our  little  merry-making,  but  our  humble  life  and  homely  plea- 
sures might  at  least  amuse  you." 

"  True  honest  manhood  and  womanhood,"  replied  Louisa, 
with  dignity,  "  are  the  best  and  noblest  attainments  ;  and  I  hope 
I  have  at  least  enough  of  the  one  to  recognize  the  other,  though 
it  be  beneath  a  roof  a  little  lower  than  mine." 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life  the  young  man  had  spoken 
depreciatingly  of  his  station  and  its  pleasures  ;  and  for  almost 
the  first  time  in  her  life  Louisa  had  uttered  a  sentiment  worthy 
of  her  real  nature. 

The  morning  looked  unpromising,  but  about  noon  the  clouds 
broke  up,  and  at  one  o'clock  the  sun  shone  bright  and  clear. 

Mrs.  Goodhue  made  herself  merry,  when  she  saw  her  daugh- 
ter sewing  the  gingham  apron  ;  but  her  estimate  of  the  Arm- 
strongs was  modified  somewhat  wh-en  she  karned  that  Mrs. 
Jackson  had  spoken  well  of  them  ;  and  at  last  she  concluded 
that  girls  would  be  girls,  and  if  Louisa  had  a  fancy  for  going 
to  the  "  apple  cutting,"  why,  she  would  allow  her  to  go. 

Active  preparations  had  been  going  forward,  at  Mrs.  Arm- 
strong's, all  day.  Moses,  who  was  a  pale,  thoughtful  boy,  had 
been  unusually  lively.  Sally  had  sung,  "  When  I  can  read  my 
title  clear,"  in  a  key  louder  than  common,  and  the  mother  had 
seemed  quite  rejuvenated,  as  she  beat  eggs,  and  rolled  sugar, 


256  THE    APPLE    CUTTING. 

and  assorted  spices  and  plums.  Only  Warren  had  been  silent, 
seeming  scarcely  soberly  glad.  Sally,  who  was  not  much  given 
to  sighing,  rallied  him  repeatedly ;  but  though  he  said  nothing 
was  the  matter,  and  he  was  sure  he  didn't  see  what  they  found 
about  him  to  laugh  at,  it  was  evident  his  thoughts  were  not  on 
his  work,  as  he  brought  in  basket  after  basket  of  fine  apples, 
and  arranged  the  boards  on  which  they  were  to  dry. 

Shortly  after  sunset  all  was  in  readiness.  Moses,  in  his  new 
boots,  and  wearing  a  broad  linen  shirt  collar — the  first  one  he 
ever  had — stood  at  the  little  white-curtained  window,  watching 
down  the  lane  for  the  first  arrivals.  Sally,  wearing  a  pink 
dress  and  white  apron,  was  trying  the  effect  of  some  red  brier 
buds  in  her  hair ;  and  the  mother  in  her  plain  black  gown,  sat 
in  the  big  rocking-chair,  with  a  fan  of  turkey  feathers  in  her 
lap,  placidly  contemplating  the  appearance  and  prospects  of 
things  in  general.  As  for  Warren,  he  was  yet  lingering  about 
the  fields,  half  wishing  the  "apple  cutting"  had  never  been 
thought  of. 

"  Oh,  Sally !  there  is  a  lady,  somebody  I  don't  know,"  called 
out  Moses  from  his  station  at  the  window. 

"Well,  well,  child,  come  and  sit  down,"  said  the  mother; 
but  Sally  ran  to  see,  and  in  a  moment  reported  in  a  whisper 
that  she  believed  in  her  heart  it  was  Miss  Goodhue,  for  she 
wore  a  white  dress,  and  a  black  apron. 

A  minute  more,  the  old  gate  creakedj  a  light  step  sounded  on 
the  blue  stones  at  the  door,  and  Miss  Goodhue  was  come. 

She  advanced  at  once  to  Mrs.  Armstrong,  and  extending  her 
little  white  hand,  said  she  had  taken  the  liberty  of  coming 
early,  that  she  might  learn  to  feel  at  home  by  the  time  the 
others  should  arrive. 


THE   APPLE    CUTTING.  257 

Truth  is,  she  had  come  thus  early  in  order  to  make  excuses 
and  return  home  before  dark,  if  on  taking  an  observation,  she 
should  feel  so  inclined. 

"  How  kind  of  you,  darling,"  said  Mrs.  Armstrong,  in  her 
sweet  motherly  way  ;  and,  seating  her  in  the  rocking-chair,  she 
untied  her  veil,  offered  her  big  fan,  and,  in  various  ways  strove 
so  cordially  to  entertain  her,  that  she  quite  forgot  her  intention 
of  making  excuses  and  returning  home.  Moses  brought  her  u 
bright  red  apple,  and  Sally  showed  her  the  garden,  though 
there  was  nothing  in  it  to  see,  she  said — and,  sure  enough 
there  were  but  a  few  faded  hollyhocks  and  marigolds  ;  but  the 
kindly  spirit  was  the  same  as  if  there  had  been  ever  so  many 
flowers  ;  and,  recognizing  this,  Louisa's  heart  softened  more 
and  more,  till  before  an  hour  had  gone,  she  laid  aside  all 
restraint  and  affectation,  and  even  outvied  Sally  in  merry 
laughter  and  talk.  Everything  was  so  new  and  strange,  and 
made  so  welcome  and  so  at  home,  she  ran  about  the  house  like 
a  pleased  child.  A  humble  dwelling  it  was,  consisting  of  but 
three  rooms — all  perfectly  neat  and  clean,  and  even  displaying 
some  little  attempts  at  taste  and  ornament.  The  low  ceilings 
and  rough  walls  were  white-washed  ;  the  window  curtains  were 
snowy  white,  and  a  plaided  home-made  carpet  covered  the 
floor  of  the  best  room  ;  and  maple  boughs,  now  bright  crimson 
and  yellow,  filled  the  fire-place.  But  that  which  made  the 
room  chiefly  attractive,  on  the  night  I  speak  of,  was  the  table. 
How  pretty  the  pink  china  (which  Mrs.  Armstrong  had  had 
ever  since  she  was  married)  showed  in  the  candle-light  ! 

There  were  cups  of  flowers,  and  there  was  Mrs.  Jackson's 
beautiful  cake,  with  many  excellent  confections  of  Mrs.  Arm- 
strong's own  making.  In  the  kitchen,  the  tea-kettle  was 


258  THE   APPLE   CU1TING. 

already  steaming,  the  chickens  were  roasting,  and  the  cream 
biscuit  were  moulded  and  ready  to  bake. 

At  eight  o'clock,  the  guests  were  assembled — eight  or  ten  in 
all — young  men  and  women,  neighbors  and  friends. 

With  right  good  will  they  set  to  work,  and  very  fast,  despite 
the  mirth  and  jesting,  the  streaked,  and  red,  and  golden  apples, 
were  peeled  and  sliced  ready  for  the  drying. 

It  happened  to  Louisa  and  Warren  to  sit  together,  and  it 
also  happened  the  rest  of  the  company  were  not  much  edified 
by  what  they  said. 

At  half-past  nine,  came  Parson  Long.  The  work  was  so 
nearly  done,  it  was  not  thought  worth  while  for  him  to  join  in 
it ;  and  so,  seated  in  the  best  chair,  and  slowly  waving  a  tur- 
key-feather fan  before  his  face,  he  looked  graciously  on  the 
volatile  people  before  him.  At  supper,  it  chanced  that  he  and 
Sally  were  seated  together,  and  whether  it  was  the  red  buds  in 
her  hair,  and  the  pink  dress,  or  whether  it  was  that  he  learned 
the  cream  biscuit,  and  the  crisp  pickles,  and  the  plum  pre- 
serves, were  all  of  her  making,  I  know  not,  but  certainly  he 
manifested  a  new  and  surprising  interest  in  her  ;  and  Louisa, 
so  far  from  feeling  any  pique,  appeared  delighted  with  his  pre- 
ference— that  is,  whenever  she  sufficiently  disengaged  her  atten- 
tion from  Warren  Armstrong  to  notice  him  at  all. 

But  I  cannot  linger  over  that  supper,  which  Louisa  said  was 
the  best  ever  prepared  ;  nor  over  the  merry-making  afterward, 
which  lasted  till  twelve  o'clock  ;  nor  can  I  describe  the  pleasant 
walks  homeward,  which,  in  separate  pairs,  the  young  people 
enjoyed — Warren  and  Louisa  most  of  all. 

In  a  day  or  two,  that  young  lady  tied  on  her  black  apron 
again,  and  went  over  to  Mrs.  Armstrong's  to  learn  how  to  make 


THE   APPLE   CUTTING.  259 

the  cream  biscuit ;  and  at  twilight,  Warren  walked  with  her 
down  the  lane  to  her  own  home — and  that  was  the  beginning 
of  many  such  visits  and  walks. 

Before  the  apples  were  half  dry,  Parson  Long  paid  a  pas- 
torly  visit  to  Mrs.  Armstrong's.  He  had  been  intending  to  do 
so  for  a  long  time,  he  said,  but  there  were  always  many  things 
to  come  between  him  and  his  wishes  ;  and  shortly  after  this, 
Sally  stopped  at  Mrs.  Goodhue's  gate,  one  Sunday  morning,  to 
speak  to  Louisa.  She  was  going  to  teach  in  the  Sunday  school, 
she  thought  she  ought  to  do  some  good  as  she  went  along. 
But  Miss  Goodbue  did  not  join  her  ;  she  went  to  church  in  the 
morning,  and  in  the  afternoon  she  liked  to  walk  in  the  fields 
and  woods,  and  worship  through  nature.  Need  I  say  Mr.  Arm- 
strong accompanied  her  in  these  walks  ? 

I  do  believe  the  course  of  true  love  sometimes  does  run 
smooth,  the  poet's  declaration  to  the  contrary,  notwithstanding. 
I  do  believe  there  are  kindred  spirits,  and  happy  homes,  few 
and  far  between  though  they  be. 

Stop,  0  wayfarer,  when  you  see  eyes  smiling  back  to  eyes 
that  smile,  for  you  are  very  near  to  heaven. 

Months  the  apples  had  been  dried  and  hung  in  a  bag,  in  the 
cabin  kitchen  ;  the  lane  leading  from  Mrs.  Armstrong's  to  the 
main  road  was  white  with  the  level  snow  ;  the  wind  whistled  up 
and  down  the  hills,  and  night  hung  dreary  over  the  world. 
But  within  doors,  it  was  cheerful  and  warm.  True,  the  genial 
face  of  Warren  was  wanting — but  then,  there  was  an  honored 
guest  seated  by  the  hickory  fire  talking  mostly  to  Sally  (who 
wore  a  lace  collar  which  Mrs.  Goodhue  gave  her)  but  sometimes 
to  quiet  Moses,  and  sometimes  to  Mrs.  Armstrong,  whom  he 
calls  mother.  Is  it  Mr.  Long  ? 


260  THE   APPLE   CUTTING. 

Across  the  fields,  and  almost  meeting  their  own,  fall  the  win- 
dow lights  of  Mrs.  Goodhue,  who  has  become  reconciled  to  the 
country,  and  thinks  it  less  dreary  in  the  winter  than  it  was  in 
the  summer.  The  fire  is  no  less  bright  than  Mrs.  Armstrong's, 
and  beside  it  sit  Warren  and  Louisa — lovers,  now. 

"  By  the  way,"  said  the  young  man,  with  an  arch  expression, 
and  passing  his  arm  around  the  waist  of  the  girl,  "  there  is  one 
little  matter  which  has  not  been  adjusted — you  have  never  paid 
me,  as  you  proposed,  for  that  first  bringing  you  from  the  city. 
You  know,  at  the  time,  I  suggested  leaving  the  settlement  to  a 
third  party  ;  I  have  selected  Parson  Long,  and  if  you  don't 
object  to  him,  pray  fix  the  time  as  early  as  possible  "  The 
reply  she  made  was  smothered  by  the  sweetest  of  all  impedi- 
ments ;  but  it  is  certain  she  did  not  object  to  the  parson,  as 
arbiter,  and  that  the  time  was  fixed,  for  she  has  been,  for  many 
a  day,  one  of  the  most  painstaking  and  exemplary  wives  in  all 
our  neighborhood — scarcely  rivalled,  indeed,  by  Mrs.  Sally  Long. 


ELIZA     ANDERSON. 


CHAPTER     I. 

THE  firelight  was  beginning  to  shine  brightly  through  the 
one  small  window  that  looked  towards  the  street — the  one 
small  window  of  a  barely  comfortable  house  that  once  stood  in 
the  suburb  of  a  busy  little  town — busy  in  a  little  way.  The 
one  blacksmith  was  exceedingly  busy :  the  clinking  of  his  ham- 
mer was  heard  far  into  the  night  often,  and  on  the  beaten  and 
baked  ground  before  his  door  horses  were  waiting  for  new 
shoes  from  year's  end  to  year's  end.  The  storekeeper  was 
busy  too,  for  he  was  showman  and  salesman,  and  clerk  and  all ; 
the  schoolmaster  was  busy  with  his  many  children  in  the 
day,  and  his  debating  schools  and  spelling  schools  at  night  ; 
the  tailor  was  busy  of  course — and  one  man  among  them,  who 
might  be  seen  talking  with  the  blacksmith  or  the  storekeeper, 
or  lounging  on  the  bench  in  front  of  the  tavern  some  time  dur- 
ing every  day,  was  busiest  of  all  ;  this  man  lived  in  the  house 
where  the  light  was  shining  at  the  window,  and  his  name  was 
George  Anderson.  He  was  always  better  dressed,  and  could 
talk  more  smartly  than  most  of  his  neighbors — it  was  his  boast 
that  he  could  do  anything  as  well  as  anybody  else,  and  a  little 


262  ELIZA    ANDERSON. 

better,  and  he  sometimes  exemplified  to  his  audience  that  his 
boast  was  not  without  truth — he  could  take  the  blacksmith's 
hammer  and  nail  on  a  horseshoe  as  readily  as  the  smith  him- 
self, and,  moreover,  he  could  make  the  nails  and  beat  out  the 
shoe,  if  he  chose,  but  it  was  not  often  he  chose  so  hard  a  task 
— he  could  wrestle  with  the  bar-keeper  and  get  the  better  of 
him,  drink  whisky  with  him,  and  in  that  too  get  the  better, 
for  George  Anderson  was  never  seen  to  walk  crooked  or  catch 
at  posts,  as  he  went  along.  Now  he  would  step  behind  the 
counter,  and  relieve  the  storekeeper  for  an  hour,  and  whatever 
trades  he  assumed  were  sure  to  be  to  the  satisfaction  of  every- 
body— he  was  good-natured  and  welcome  everywhere,  for  he 
always  brought  good  news.  It  was  quite  an  event  at  the 
school-house  to  have  him  come  and  give  out  the  spelling  lesson, 
or  hear  the  big  girls  parse  some  intricate  sentence  from  Para- 
dise Lost. 

The  scholars  were  not  afraid  of  him,  and  knew  they  could 
catch  flies  and  talk  as  much  as  they  pleased  if  he  were  their 
teacher,  and  then  they  felt  sure  he  knew  more  than  the  school- 
master himself. 

The  firelight  was  beginning  to  shine  so  bright  that  you 
might  have  seen  through  the  naked  window  all  that  was  in  the 
room — a  bare  floor,  a  bed,  some  chairs  and  a  table  were  there 
— a  pot  and  a  kettle  steaming  over  the  fire — a  little  girl  sitting 
in  a  little  chair,  before- it,  and  a  woman  leaning  on  the  foot  of 
the  bed.  The  table-cloth  was  laid,  but  nothing  to  eat  was  on 
the  table. 

Presently  the  schoolmaster  was  seen  going  that  way,  walk- 
ing leisurely,  and  with  a  book  beneath  his  arm — he  boards 
with  Mrs.  Anderson,  and  is  going  home.  He  entered  the 


ELIZA  '  ANDERSON.  263 

house,  and  in  less  than  a  minute  was  seen  to  come  out  without 
the  book,  looking  hurried  and  flurried,  and  to  walk  towards  the 
more  crowded  part  of  the  town  very  fast,  stopping  once  at  the 
door  of  a  small  house  much  resembling  Mrs.  Anderson's  own. 

He  finds  the  redoubtable  George  telling  a  story  in  the  bar- 
room to  a  group  of  admiring  listeners,  and  touching  his  arm, 
whispers  something,  but  the  story-telling  goes  on  all  the  same. 
The  schoolmaster  repeats  the  touch,  and  whispers  more  em- 
phatically. "  Yes,  directly,"  says  George.  "  Now,  this  mo- 
ment !"  says  the  schoolmaster,  aloud,  and  he  tries  to  pull  the 
talker  away,  but  not  till  the  story  is  finished  does  he  start  to- 
ward home,  and  then  leisurely  and  smoking  a  cigar  as  he  goes. 
The  schoolmaster  does  not  return  home,  but  solemnly  makes  his 
way  to  a  common  not  far  from  it,  and  crossing  his  hands  be- 
hind him,  appears  lost  in  contemplating  a  flock  of  geese  swim- 
ming in  a  shallow  pond  and  squalling  when  he  comes  near. 
Meantime  the  mistress  of  the  little  house,  at  the  door  of  which 
he  stopped  for  a  moment,  has  thrown  a  shawl  about  her  shoul- 
ders and  runs  without  bonnet  to  Mrs.  Anderson's  house.  An- 
other woman,  spectacles  in  hand,  and  cap  border  flying,  fol- 
lows directly,  and  then  another,  summoned  by  some  secret  and 
mysterious  agent,  it  would  seem,  for  no  messenger  has  been 
visible. 

The  window  that  looks  into  the  street  is  temporarily  curtain- 
ed now  with  a  woman's  shawl — sparks  are  seen  to  fly  out  of 
the  chimney  rapidly,  and  there  is  much  going  out  and  in  and 
whispering  of  neighbors  about  their  doors  and  over  their  gar- 
den fences — and  it  is  not  long  till  one  of  the  women  comes 
away  from  Mrs.  Anderson's,  leading  the  little  girl  who  sat  by 
the  fire  an  hour  ago.  Her  black  eyes  are  wide  open  as  if  she 


264  ELIZA    ANDERSON. 

were  afraid,  or  in  doubt  what  would  become  of  her,  and  she 
looks  back  towards  her  home  wistfully  and  often,  though  the 
woman  seems  to  talk  cheerfully  as  they  go,  and  lifts  her  with  a 
playful  jump  over  the  rough  places.  Suddenly  they  turn  aside 
from  the  path  they  are  in — they  notice  the  schoolmaster  pacing 
up  and  down  beside  the  pond,  and  join  him,  and  after  some  em- 
barrassed blushes  and  foolish  laughter  on  his  part,  they  go 
away  together.  He  leads  the  little  girl  by  the  hand,  and  her 
thin,  white  face  looks  up  to  him  more  confidently  than  to  the 
strange  woman.  They  turn  into  a  little  yard,  cross  a  dark 
porch  and  open  a  side  door — a  glimpse  is  revealed  of  a  room 
full  of  light  and  children,  and  all  is  dark  again. 

A  very  good  supper  the  strange  woman  prepared,  of  which 
the  little  girl  and  the  schoolmaster  partook,  and  afterward  he 
lifts  her  on  his  knee,  and  with  the  other  children  gathered 
about  him,  tells  stories  of  bears  and  pirates  and  Indians  till 
she  at  last  falls  asleep,  and  then  the  strange  woman  opens  a 
little  bed  and  softly  covers  her,  and  the  schoolmaster  is  shown 
to  a  bed  in  another  part  of  the  house.  The  morning  comes, 
and  she  goes  to  school  with  the  master  without  having  gone 
home,  and  the  day  goes  by  as  other  days  have  gone  at  school 
—  lessons  are  badly  recited  and  spelling  badly  spelled ;  and 
the  schoolmaster  takes  her  hand  and  helps  her  down  stairs,  and 
walks  on  the  rough  ground,  leaving  the  smooth  path  for  her, 
and  they  pass  the  pond  where  the  geese  are  swimming,  and  the 
strange  woman's  house,  and  go  in  at  home,  the  child  still  hold- 
ing the  master's  hand. 

"  Well,  Lidy,"  says  the  woman,  who  is  there  preparing  the 
supper,  "  what  do  you  think  happened  when  you  were  asleep 
last  night?"  Lidy  can't  guess,  and  the  master  says  he  can't 


* 


ELIZA   ANDERSON.  265 

guess,  though  older  eyes  than  Lidy's  would  have  seen  that  he 
suspected  shrewdly.  "  Why,"  says  the  strange  woman,  "  the 
prettiest  little  brother  you  ever  saw  in  your  life  was  brought 
here,  for  you  !"  Lidy's  black  eyes  open  wide  with  wonder,  and 
she  holds  fast  the  master's  hand,  and  looks  at  him  inquiringly 
as  if  she  wished  he  would  tell  her  whether  to  be  glad  or  sorry. 
He  puts  his  arm  around  her  and  draws  her  close  to  his  side, 
nd  says  something  about  how  happy  she  will  be,  but  he  says 
it  in  a  misgiving  tone,  and  smooths  her  hair  as  if  it  were  a 
piteous  case.  The  strauge  woman  leaves  her  bustling  for  a 
moment,  and  whispers  at  the  bedside  there  is  no  tea.  A  pale 
hand  puts  by  the  curtain,  and  a  low  voice  says  something 
about  having  told  George,  three  hours  past,  to  go  to  the  tailor 
who  owes  her  for  sewing,  get  the  money  and  bring  home  tea 
and  sugar,  and  some  other  things,  and  she  wonders  he  does  noi, 
come.  The  strange  woman  says  she  wonders  too,  but  she 
whispers  to  the  schoolmaster  that  it  is  enough  like  somebody  to 
stay  away  at  such  a  time,  and  she  lifts  the  tea-kettle  from  the 
coals,  and  lights  the  candle. 

Lidy  is  told  to  sit  down  in  her  little  chair,  and  make  a  good, 
nice  lap,  which  she  does  as  well  as  she  knows  how — and  the 
dear  little  brother,  about  whom  she  is  still  half  incredulous,  is 
brought,  and  in  long  flannel  wrappings  laid  across  her  knees. 
"  Now  ain't  he  a  pretty  baby  though  !"  exclaims  the  strange 
woman,  "  with  his  itty  bitty  boo  eyes,  and  his  hair  des  as  nice 
as  any  of  'em  and  ebrysing."  The  latter  part  of  the  speech 
was  made  to  the  wonderful  baby,  whom  Lidy  was  told  she 
must  kiss,  and  which  she  did  kiss  as  in  duty  bound.  The  wonder- 
ful baby  scowled  his  forehead,  clenched  his  fists  and  began  to 
cry.  "Jolt  your  chair  a  little,  sissy,"  says  the  strange  woman. 

12 


266  ELIZA.  ANDERSON. 

and  then  to  the  wonderful  brother,  "Do  they  booze  itty  boy  I 
Well,  'era  sant  do  no  such  a  sing  !  DO,  'en  saut  !'•'  Then  to  the 
schoolmaster,  who  is  bending  over  his  Latin  grammar,  she  ex- 
hibits one  of  the  feet  of  the  remarkable  boy,  and  says  she 
believes  in  her  heart,  he  could  hardly  wear  the  moccasin  of  her 
little  Mary  who  is  nine  months  old — then  she  falls  to  kissing 
one  of  the  hands  of  the  wonderful  baby,  and  calls  him  in  her 
loving  fondness,  "a  great  big,  good-for-nossen  sugar-plum." 
Then  she  exhibits  one  of  the  wonderful  hands,  that  clenches  and 
claws  most  unamiably  as  she  does  so,  and  informs  the  school- 
master that  she  believes  in  her  heart,  the  hands  of  the  wonder- 
ful boy  are  as  large,  that  very  minute,  as  her  Tommy's,  and  he 
will  be  two  years  old  the  seventeenth  day  of  next  month — 
then  she  addresses  herself  to  the  baby  again,  and  calls  his 
feet  "ittle  footens,"  and  makes  a  feint  of  eating  both  at  once. 

And  all  this  while  the  remarkable  boy  has  been  fretting  and 
frowuing  on  the  lap  of  his  little  sister,  who  is  told  she  is  very 
much  blest  in  having  a  little  brother,  and  who  supposes  she  is 
blest,  and  trots  him,  and  kisses  him,  and  holds  him  up  and  lays 
him  down  again,  but  in  spite  of  all  her  little  efforts  he  frowns 
and  fidgets  as  if  she  did  not,  and  could  not  do  half  enough  for 
him. 

By  and  by  a  slow  footstep  is  heard,  and  a  whistle,  and  di- 
rectly afterward  Mr.  Anderson  comes  in  and  gives  the  strange 
woman  a  little  parcel — briskly  she  measures  the  tea,  and 
briskly  she  fills  up  the  teapot  and  rattles  the  cups  into  the 
saucers  ;  the  baby  is  smothered  in  his  long  flannels  and  tucked 
under  the  coverlet. 

"  Come,  Casper,"  says  Mr.  Anderson,  "  if  you  had  been  at 
work  as  hard  as  I  have,  you  would  not  want  to  be  called  twice." 


ELIZA   ANDERSON.  267 

The  schoolmaster  lays  down  his  grammar  and  asks  Mr. 
Anderson  what  he  has  been  doing — the  pale  hand  puts  by  the 
curtain  again,  and  a  pale  face  turns  eagerly  to  hear. 

"  Why,  I  could  not  begin  to  tell,"  he  says,  helping  himself 
freely  to  everything  that  is  on  the  table,  and  he  proceeds  to 
mention  some  of  the  work.  He  has  broken  a  colt,  he  says, 
which  nobody  else  could  manage,  and  made  him  kindly,  both 
under  the  saddle  and  in  harness — he  has  drawn  a  tooth  which 
the  dentist  could  not  draw,  he  has  turned  off  two  flour  barrels 
for  the  cooper,  and  driven  the  stage-coach  seven  miles  and 
back,  besides  a  dozen  other  things,  none  of  which  was  the  least 
profit  to  his  family.  The  light  goes  out  of  the  pale  face  that 
turned  so  eagerly  towards  him,  and  a  low  voice  says,  "  Did  you 
see  the  tailor,  George  ?" 

"  Why,  to  be  sure,"  he  answers,  "  I  sewed  a  seam  for  him  as 
long  as  from  here  to  the  gate  and  back  again."  He  has  not 
answered  her  question  as  she  expected,  the  hand  that  holds  the 
curtain  shakes  nervously,  and  the  low  voice  says, 

"  Did  he — did — did  you  get  the  tea,  George  ?" 

"  Why,  to  be  sure,  and  most  excellent  tea  it  is,"  and  as  the 
strange  woman  drains  the  last  drop  into  his  sixth  cup,  he  adds, 
"  won't  you  have  a  cup,  mother  ?" 

He  turns  partly  towards  her  as  he  confers  upon  her  the  honor 
of  this  inquiry,  and  the  low  voice  trembles  as  it  says,  "  No," 
and  the  pale  hand  lets  the  curtain  drop.  Poor  woman  !  per- 
haps she  saw  the  bright  new  waistcoat  that  George  wore,  with 
its  double  rows  of  shining  buttons,  perhaps  she  saw  this  and 
knew  the  way  her  hard  earnings  had  gone.  The  schoolmaster 
thinks  he  hears  a  stifled  groan  behind  the  curtain,  sets  bis  cup 
of  tea  aside,  and  will  not  eat  any  more,  and  directly  returns  to 


268  ELIZA   ANDERSON. 

his  grammar.  Mr.  Anderson  sits  in  the  corner  and  smokes  for 
half  an  hour,  and  then  recollecting  that  some  business  requires 
his  attention  up  town,  pulls  on  his  gloves,  and  goes  out.  The 
schoolmaster  follows  shortly,  and  in  a  few  minutes  returns,  and 
gives  the  strange  woman  two  small  parcels,  one  containing 
crackers  and  the  other  raisins — poor  Mrs.  Anderson  thinks  it 
was  George  brought  them,  reproaches  herself  for  having 
wronged  him,  smiles  and  is  blest  again. 

The  remarkable  baby  cries  and  cries,  and  while  the  strange 
woman  washes  the  dishes  and  makes  the  house  tidy,  little  Lidy 
carries  him  up  and  down  the  room,  and  across  and  across  the 
room  till  her  arms  ache,  and  she  sits  down 

"Bless  me  !  you  are  not  tired  of  your  dear  little  brother 
already  ?"  exclaims  the  strange  woman,  and  Lidy  says  she  is 
not  tired — she  is  very  glad  to  carry  him — only  her  arms  won't 
hold  him  any  longer. 

When  the  house  was  set  in  order,  the  strange  woman  took 
the  remarkable  boy,  and  with  some  talk  to  his  "  ittle  boo,  seepy 
eyes,"  managed  to  quiet  him,  and  tucking  him  away  as  before, 
she  went  home  to  attend  her  own  house  and  little  ones. 

At  ten  o'clock  Lidy  had  crossed  the  floor  with  her  blessed 
brother  in  her  arms  hundreds  of  times,  and  in  a  temporary  lull 
was  fallen  asleep  in  her  chair.  A  rough  pull  at  her  hair  caused 
her  to  open  her  eyes  suddenly — the  baby  was  crying  again,  and 
her  father  was  come  and  scolding  her  angrily.  "  She  had  not 
a  bit  of  -feeling,"  he  said,  "  and  did  not  deserve  to  have  such  a 
beautiful  brother — somebody  would  come  and  take  him  away 
if  she  did  not  take  better  care  of  him."  Directly  Lidy  was 
pacing  the  floor  again,  and  the  baby  crying  with  all  his  might. 
"  Seems  to  me  you  don't  try  to  keep  your  poor  little  brother 


ELIZA   ANDERS  OX.  269 

still,"  says  the  father,  for  a  moment  taking  the  cigar  from  his 
mouth,  and  then  puffing  away  again.  He  never  thought  of 
relieving  the  little  girl,  or  even  of  speaking  any  words  of  pity 
and  comfort  to  her — she  was  not  born  to  pity  or  comfort  from 
her  father — she  had  committed  the  offence  of  inheriting  the 
light  of  life  some  years  prior  to  her  brother,  and  from  the 
moment  of  his  birth  she  had  no  consideration  except  with 
reference  to  him.  Even  her  mother,  though  she  loved  her, 
gave  the  baby  the  preference — Lidy's  petticoats  were  appro- 
priated for  his  use,  and  Lidy  could  not  go  to  school  because 
her  shawl  must  be  turned  into  a  baby  blanket.  Everybody 
came  to  see  the  baby,  and  everybody  said  how  much  prettier 
than  his  sister  he  was,  but  that  she  seemed  to  be  a  good  little 
girl,  and  of  course  she  was  very  much  delighted  with  her  new 
brother — he  would  be  big  enough  one  of  these  days  to  play 
with  her,  and  then  she  would  have  fine  times. 

Mr.  Anderson  was  congratulated,  and  proud  to  be  congratu- 
lated— he  could  afford  to  do  almost  anything  since  a  fine  son 
was  born  to  him,  and  in  higher  good-humor  than  usual  he  made 
barrels  for  the  cooper  and  nails  for  the  blacksmith — treated  all 
the  town  to  brandy  instead  of  whisky,  and  to  the  storekeeper 
traded  a  very  good  new  hat  for  a  very  bad  old  one  ! 

And  patiently  Lidy  gave  up  her  petticoats,  and  patiently  she 
stayed  away  from  school  and  worked  all  the  day — and  while  her 
mother  sat  up  in  bed  to  sew  for  the  tailor  again,  she  climbed 
into  her  little  chair  and  washed  the  dishes — it  was  all  for  her 
pretty  little  brother,  her  mother  said,  and  by  and  by  he  would 
be  big  enough  to  work  for  them,  and  then  he  would  buy  a  new- 
cap  for  mother,  and  new  slippers  for  Lidy,  and  oh,  ever  so 
many  things. 


270  ELIZA   ANDEKSON. 

Lidy  quite  forgot  the  sweeping  and  the  dish  washing,  in  the 
pictures  of  the  new  things  her  little  brother  was  going  to  buy 
for  her  some  time. 

Now  and  then  of  evenings,  when  the  baby  was  asleep,  the 
schoolmaster  would  take  Lidy  on  his  knee  and  teach  her  to 
read,  and  she  scarcely  fell  behind  the  children  that  were  in 
school  every  day,  he  said.  Once  when  he  was  praising  her, 
her  father  said  her  little  brother  George  would  soon  get  before 
her  when  he  was  big  enough  to  go  to  school.  "  George  will 
never  have  her  eyes,  though,"  said  the  schoolmaster,  proudly 
looking  into  their  black,  lustrous  depths. 

Mr.  Anderson  said  the  girl's  eyes  were  well  enough,  he  sup- 
posed, for  a  girl's  eyes,  but  George  would  never  suffer  in  com- 
parison with  her,  and  from  that  time  the  schoolmaster,  whose 
name  was  Casper  Rodwick,  was  designated  as  "  Old  Casper," 
by  the  father  of  the  remarkable  boy. 

CHAPTER    II. 

Years  went  away,. and  one  frosty  moonlight  night,  the  same 
neighbor  who  led  little  Lidy  away  and  kept  her  before,  was 
seen  hurrying  across  the  common,  again,  and  the  schoolmaster 
to  come  forth  and  go  searching  about  the  town — the  store- 
keeper laid  down  his  measure,  saying,  "  Is  there  any  bad  news, 
Mr.  Rodwick  ?"  for  he  knew  by  the  manner  of  his  inquiry  for 
George,  that  poor  Mrs.  Anderson  was  dead. 

The  husband  wore  a  new  hat  deeply  shrouded  with  crape  at 
her  funeral,  and  new  gloves,  and  George,  who  was  grown  to  be 
a  big,  saucy  boy,  wore  gloves  too,  while  EHza  wore  an  ill-fitting 
bonnet  that  was  not  her  own,  and  no  gloves  at  all. 


ELIZA   ANDERSON.  271 

From  that  time  Mr.  Anderson  did  not  look,  nor  seem  like 
himself,  people  said,  and  it  was  believed  he  was  grieving  him- 
self to  death.  They  did  not  know,  and  he  did  not  know,  that 
he  had  drawn  all  his  life  from  his  wife — she  had  bought  his 
food  and  his  clothes,  she  had  held  him  up  and  kept  him  up,  and 
when  the  crape  he  wore  at  her  funeral  grew  dusty  and  fell  to 
pieces,  he  fell  to  pieces  with  it.  He  called  Lidy  to  his  bedside, 
one  day,  and  told  her  that  her  brother  would  soon  have  a  fine 
education — she  must  be  content  to  suffer  some  privations  till 
that  was  accomplished,  and  then  he  would  repay  her  hand- 
somely— he  was  a  noble-hearted  lad,  and  wonderfully  gifted. 
Lidy  must  look  to  him  for  advice  now,  and  in  all  things  sub- 
serve his  wishes. 

"  Dear,  dear  father,"  cried  Lidy,  "  you  must  not  die — I  can 
not  live  without  you,"  and  with  all  the  power  that  was  in  her, 
she  strove  to  make  pleasant  the  sick-room.  She  placed  her 
geranium  pots  and  myrtles  where  he  could  see  them,  and  let 
the  sunshine  in  at  the  windows  that  he  might  feel  how  bright 
the  world  was  without — but  his  eyes  could  not  see  the  bright- 
ness anywhere,  and  at  length  one  night  Casper  was  called  to 
write  his  will — he  had  nothing  to  bequeath,  and  his  will  was  a 
record  of  his  wishes  only.  Little  more  was  written  than  he 
had  spoken  to  Lidy,  and  all  was  to  the  effect  that  George  was 
her  natural  and  proper  guardian,  that  he  was  superior  to  her 
in  wisdom,  and  should  be  so  in  authority,  and  that  if  ever 
his  daughter  forgot  it,  he  wished  her  to  read  this  testimonial 
of  her  father's  will. 

So  they  were  left  alone  in  the  world,  the  two  orphans,  with 
no  friend  but  the  schoolmaster.  Eliza  Anderson  had  all  her 
mother's  energy  and  aptitude.  She  could  not  only  sew  for  the 


272  ELIZA   ANDERSON. 

tailor,  but  she  could  make  caps  and  collars  for  the  ladies  of  the 
town,  and  dresses  too,  and  as  she  was  not  ashamed  to  work  she 
got  along  with  her  poverty  very  well.  George  inherited  all 
his  father's  smartness,  and  more  than  all  his  irresolution,  but  as 
he  grew  older  he  grew  better  tempered,  and  whatever  he  was 
to  others,  was  seldom  unamiable  to  Lidy.  How  could  he  be, 
indeed,  unless  he  had  been  a  demon  ? 

Often  when  she  sat  with  her  sewing  at  night,  she  would  tell 
the  schoolmaster  what  great  hopes  she  had  of  George,  and  how 
ingeniously  he  could  turn  his  hand  to  anything.  Sometimes  he 
would  smile  and  sometimes  he  would  sigh,  but  whatever  he 
said  it  was  evident  he  shared  none  of  her  enthusiasm.  This 
rather  offended  Lidy,  for  she  received  any  slight  to  George  as 
a  personal  insult,  and  she  would  sit  all  the  evening  after  some 
hopeful  allusion  to  him,  silent,  often  sullen,  saying  to  all  the 
master's  little  efforts  to  please  her,  that  she  had  not  a  friend  in 
the  world,  and  it  was  no  use  ever  to  hope  for  sympathy.  It 
was  true  that  from  the  first  the  master  had  not  loved  George 
much — first  he  had  taken  the  petticoats  from  his  little  favorite, 
then  her  playthings,  and  then  she  began  to  be  big  enough  to 
work  for  him,  and  from  that  time  it  was  nothing  else  but  work 
for  him,  and  for  the  master's  part  he  could  see  no  prospect  of 
anything  else. 

One  night  she  appeared  unusually  happy,  and  to  find  her  own 
heart  company  enough.  Once  or  twice  she  seemed  on  the 
point  of  telling  something  to  the  master,  but  she  checked  her- 
self, and  if  she  said  anything  it  was  evidently  not  what  she  at 
first  thought.  "  Well,  Lidy,"  he  said,  at  length,  "what  is  it  ?" 
and  at  last  it  came  out — about  George,  of  course.  He  was 
going  to  stay  away  from  school  and  work  in  the  garden  the 


ELIZA   ANDERSON.  273 

half  of  every  day  !  and  Eliza  thought  it  not  unlikely  that  he 
would  learn  more  in  half  the  day,  after  such  healthful  exercise, 
than  he  had  done  in  the  whole  day.  She  had  spent  more 
money  for  the  hoe,  and  the  spade,  and  garden  seeds,  to  be  sure, 
than  she  could  well  afford,  but  then  it  was  all  going  to  be  such 
an  improvement  to  George,  to  say  nothing  of  the  great  advan- 
tage it  would  be  to  her  ? 

"  Don't  you  think  it  will  be  a  good  thing  for  us  both  ?"  and 
she  went  on  to  say  it  was  a  wonderful  idea,  and  all  his  own — 
she  had  never  suggested  anything  like  it  to  George.  Did 
it  not  look  like  beginning  to  do  in  earnest  ?  and  she  concluded, 
"  maybe,  after  all,  you  will  find  you  were  mistaken  about 
him  !" 

"  And  maybe  not,"  said  the  schoolmaster,  cooly — "  where  is 
the  boy  ?" 

Eliza  did  not  know  where  he  was,  and  to  be  avenged  upon 
him  for  the  humiliating  confession  he  obliged  her  to  make,  she 
said  she  did  not  know  as  it  was  any  of  his  business. 

"  Of  course  it  is  not  my  business,  but  I  can't  bear  to  see  you 
so  imposed  upon,"  and  he  very  gently  took  her  hand  as  he 
spoke.  She  withdrew  it  blushing  ;  covered  her  face,  and  burst 
into  tears.  She  was  not  a  child,  and  he  was  her  friend  and 
schoolmaster  no  more.  She  was  become  a  woman,  and  he  her 
interested  lover. 

He  had  been  gone  an  hour  to  the  little  chamber  adjoining 
his  schoolroom,  where  he  had  slept  since  her  mother's  death, 
when  George  came. 

Lidy  kept  her  face  in  the  dark  that  he  might  not  see  how 
red  her  eyes  were,  for  she  could  not  explain  why  she  had  been 
crying.  She  hardly  knew  herself — and  in  a  tone  of  affected 

12* 


274  ELIZA    ANDEKSON. 

cheerfulness  told  him  of  the  garden  tools  she  had  bought,  and 
produced  her  package  of  seeds. 

"  Call  me  early,"  he  said,  "  I  am  going  to  work  in  earnest. 
I  am  twelve  years  old  now,  and  can  do  as  much  as  a  man  !" 

Lidy  promised  to  call  him,  and  never  once  thought  necessity 
ought  to  wake  him,  as  it  did  her. 

She  was  astir  an  hour  earlier  than  common  the  next  day — 
and  having  called  George,  set  to  digging  in  the  garden  beds 
with  good-will.  She  was  determined  the  schoolmaster  should 
find  the  work  begun  when  he  came  to  breakfast.  Two  or  three 
times  she  left  her  work  to  call  George  again,  and  at  last, 
yawning  and  complaining,  he  came.  "  He  thought  he  would 
feel  more  like  working  after  breakfast,"  he  said,  "  rising  so 
early  made  his  head  dizzy,"  and  sitting  down  on  a  bank  of 
grass,  he  buried  his  forehead  in  his  handkerchief,  and  with  one 
hand  pulled  the  rake  across  the  loose  earth  which  his  sister  had 
been  digging.  Poor  boy,  she  thought,  a  cup  of  coffee  will  do 
him  good,  and  away  she  flew  to  make  it. 

"  Really,  George,"  said  the  schoolmaster,  when  he  sat  down 
to  breakfast,  "you  have  made  a  fine  beginning — if  you  keep  on 
this  way  we  shall  be  proud  of  you." 

Lidy  noticed  that  he  said,  we  shall  be  proud  of  you,  and  in 
her  confusion  she  twice  put  sugar  in  his  coffee,  and  forgot  to 
give  sugar  to  George  at  all.  He  sulked  and  sat  back  from  the 
table,  affecting  to  believe  that  his  sister  had  deprived  him  of 
sugar  in  his  coffee  for  the  sake  of  giving  the  master  a  double 
portion.  And  he  concluded  with  saying,  "  It's  pretty  treatment 
after  my  getting  up  at  daybreak  to  work  for  you." 

"  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself,"  said  the  master, 
provoked  by  his  insolent  words  and  sulky  manner  beyond  silent 


ELIZA    A]STDEESO^.  275 

endurance,  "  as  if  you  ought  not  to  work  for  your  sister,  and 
moreover  it  is  for  yourself  you  are  working."  And  he  added 
between  his  teeth,  "if  I  had  the  management  of  you,  I'd  teach 
you  what  pretty  treatment  was  !" 

"But  you  haven't  the  management  of  him,  Mr.  Rodwick," 
said  Eliza,  moving  her  chair  further  from  him  and  nearer  to 
George. 

"  I  am  aware  of  it,  Miss  Anderson,"  he  replied,  "  and  if  you 
will  uphold  him  in  his  ugliness  after  this  fashion,  I  must  say  I 
should  be  sorry  to  be  connected  with  him  in  any  way  !" 

A  look  that  was  half  defiance  and  half  sneer,  passed  over  the 
face  of  Lidy,  but  she  said  nothing.  At  this  moment  the  black- 
smith stopped  at  the  door,  to  offer  some  seeds  of  an  excellent 
kind  of  cucumbers  to  his  neighbor,  whom  in  common  with  all 
the  village  he  greatly  esteemed. 

"  You  look  pale,  ma'am,"  he  said,  as  he  laid  the  seeds  on  the 
table  beside  her,  "  I'm  afeard  you  have  been  working  beyond 
your  strength  ;"  and  turning  to  the  master,  he  explained  how 
he  had  seen  her  digging  in  the  garden  since  daybreak.  Her 
face  grew  crimson,  for  she  had  not  only  suffered  the  master  to 
attribute  the  work  to  George,  but  had  herself  helped  to  deceive 
him. 

One  glance  he  gave  her,  which  to  her  appeared  made  up  of 
pity  and  contempt,  and  without  one  word  went  away  from  the 
house.  If  her  little  deception  had  not  been  discovered,  she 
could  have  borne  herself  very  proudly  towards  the  master,  but 
now  she  was  humiliated,  not  only  in  his  estimation,  but  her 
own.  She  was  angry  with  him,  with  the  blacksmith,  with 
George,  and  with  herself.  Yet  for  a  good  while  she  would  not 
give  up  even  to  herself,  but  sat  sipping  coffee  and  eating  dry 


276  ELIZA   ANDERSON". 

bread,  as  if  nothing  disturbed  her  in  the  least,  but  all  the  while 
the  bitter  tears  kept  rising  and  filling  her  eyes,  for  she  would 
not  wipe  them  away.  One  moment  she  thought  she  did  not 
care  for  what  had  happened,  and  that  she  had  a  right  to  work 
in  the  garden,  and  was  not  obliged  to  tell  the  master  of  it 
either,  as  she  knew  of,  and  that  if  he  had  ever  given  George 
credit  for  anything,  she  would  not  have  tried  to  deceive  him, 
and  at  any  rate,  what  she  did  was  nothing  to  him  ;  he  had  no 
authority  over  either  of  them,  she  was  glad  of  that.  But  under 
all  this  bolstering,  which  she  heaped  up  under  her  failing  heart, 
she  felt  sorry  and  ashamed,  and  knew  that  the  master  was  in  the 
right,  that  he  was  a  strict  disciplinarian,  and  that  in  some  sort  he 
was  entitled  to  some  authority  over  George,  at  least.  He  had 
lived  in  the  house  with  them  always,  had  been  their  teacher,  and 
since  their  father's  death  their  friend  and  guardian.  George  was 
a  bad,  idle  boy,  she  knew,  and  ran  away  from  school  when  he 
chose,  and  she  knew  too  that  he  required  a  severe  master,  and 
if  Mr.  Rodwick  had  softened  matters  a  little  she  would  not  have 
cared  ;  but  he  was  not  the  man  to  disguise  plain  truth — as  far 
as  he  saw  he  saw  clearly,  and  made  others  see  clearly  too. 

But  when  it  was  all  turned  over  and  over,  Eliza  was  angry 
with  him  more  than  with  George,  angry,  because  he  knew  the 
truth,  and  angry  because  the  truth  was  the  truth — in  some  way, 
his  knowledge  of  facts  made  the  facts,  she  thought. 

And  all  the  while  she  was  turning  things  about,  and  yet  not 
reconciled  to  herself,  nor  to  the  master,  nor  to  George,  he  sat 
sullenly  away  from  the  table  biting  his  finger-nails,  and  waiting 
to  be  coaxed  to  eat. 

For  once  there  was  no  coaxing  for  him,  and  the  breakfast 
was  removed  without  his  having  tasted  it.  Pulling  his  hat 


ELIZA  A:STDEKSON.  27V 

over  his  eyes,  he  was  about  leaving  the  house,  when  Eliza  drew 
him  back  and  demanded  authoritatively  where  he  was  going. 
"To  the  tavern,  to  buy  my  breakfast." 

"  No,  you  shall  not,"  she  said,  and  forcing  him  to  sit  down 
she  sat  by  him  and  repeated  to  him  the  sacrifices  she  had  all 
her  life  made  for  him,  "  and  what,  after  all,  is  the  result  ?"  she 
said,  "  why,  the  more  I  do  the  more  I  may,  and  the  less  you 
care  for  me  ?"  and  seeing  that  he  was  grinning  in  his  hat,  she 
told  him  that  she  knew  somebody  who  could  make  him  mind, 
thus  owning  to  his  face,  like  a  weak,  foolish,  loving  woman,  that 
she  had  no  power  over  him. 

"Well,  Madam  Rodwick,"  he  said,  coolly,  when  she  had 
exhausted,  all  epithets  of  threat  and  entreaty,  and  tenderness 
and  reproach,  "  if  you  have  concluded  your  sermon  I'll  go  and 
get  my  breakfast." 

"  You  will  go  to  work  in  the  garden  !"  said  the  sister,  "  that 
is  what  you  will  do  I"  and  straight  way  she  fell  down  to 
entreaty,  and  with  tears  counted  the  money  she  had  paid  for 
spade  and  hoe  and  seeds,  and  how  illy  she  could  afford  it,  and 
how  she  had  hoped,  and  how  she  still  hoped  that  he  was  going 
to  be  a  good  boy,  a  help  and  comfort  to  her. 

''  Well,  I  shan't  mind  old  Casper,  anyhow,"  said  the  boy,  at 
length  ;  and  it  was  finally  settled  that  he  would  go  to  work  in 
the  garden,  and  that  she  would  prepare  him  a  nice,  warm 
breakfast.  A  few  shovels  of  earth  he  moved  from  one  place  to 
another,  but  there  was  really  no  work  done,  and  Eliza  saw 
there  was  none  done  when  she  called  him  to  the  second  break- 
fast. She  was  completely  discouraged  and  broken  down  now, 
and  told  George  so,  and  seeing  that  be  heeded  nothing,  she 
buried  her  face  in  her  hands  and  fell  to  crying.  She  did  not 


278  ELIZA    ANDERSON. 

know  as  she  would  ever  do  anything  again,  she  said,  and  indeed 
she  felt  little  courage  to  go  to  work.  George  would  not  help 
her,  and  she  was  tired  of  working  alone. 

"  It  was  too  hot  now,  to  work  in  the  gai'den,"  he  replied, 
"  and  too  late  to  go  to  school,"  and  so  he  sauntered  away,  his 
sister  saying,  as  he  went,  "  She  did  not  know  as  she  cared 
where  he  went,  nor  what  became  of  him." 

It  was  noon  before  she  knew  it,  and  the  master  came  home, 
and  there  was  no  dinner  prepared  ;  and  the  tailor  called  for 
some  promised  work,  and  Eliza  had  been  crying  all  day,  and  it 
was  not  ready.  He  was  disappointed,  vexed,  and  said  if  she 
could  not  keep  her  engagements  he  would  find  somebody  that 
would. 

The  master  saw  how  it  all  was — that  George  was  the  begin- 
ning of  trouble,  and  that  Eliza  herself  was  not  a  little  to  blame, 
and  if  he  had  said  anything,  he  would  have  said  what  he  thought, 
but  she  asked  for  neither  advice  nor  sympathy  ;  and  having  told 
her  she  need  prepare  no  dinner  for  him,  he  returned  to  the  school- 
house  and  its  duties,  and  as  usual  maintained  a  calm  and  quiet 
demeanor,  however  much  he  might  have  been  troubled  at 
heart. 

When  the  school  was  done  with,  he  did  not  return  home  at 
once  as  was  his  custom,  but  opening  his  grammar,  remained  at 
the  window  as  long  as  he  could  see,  and  till  after  that. 

All  day  George  had  not  been  seen  nor  heard  of — and  all  day 
Eliza  had  done  nothing  but  cry  and  fret ;  but  when  night 
came,  and  a  messenger  with  it  to  say  he  was  lying  on  the 
ground,  a  little  way  out  of  town,  drunken  as  he  could  be,  she 
began  to  see  how  much  less  to  blame  the  schoolmoster  had  been 
than  she  had  tried  to  believe. 


ELIZA   AKDEESOX.  2*79 

From  her  heart  she  wished  he  would  come,  but  though  suffer- 
ing most  intensely  she  would  not  seek  him,  nor  would  she  allow 
him  to  know  her  wretchedness  when  he  should  come,  so  she 
resolved.  But  all  her  proud  resolves  would  not  do.  He  came 
at  last  in  the  same  calm,  confident  way  he  always  came,  and 
with  some  common  words,  meant  to  show  that  all  was  right, 
and  that  he  felt  as  usual,  opened  his  book  to  await  his  supper, 
which  he  saw  no  indication  of. 

"  Mr.  Rodwick,"  she  said,  directly,  in  a  voice  that  trembled  in 
spite  of  herself. 

"  Yes,  what  is  it  ?"  he  answered,  without  looking  from  his 
book. 

It  was  very  hard  and  very  humiliating  to  tell  him  what  it 
was,  but  her  love  for  George,  and  the  fear  that  he  might  be 
run  over  where  he  lay,  overcame  the  last  remnant  of  her  pride, 
and  hiding  her  face,  she  sobbed  out  her  sad  confession  and 
appeal. 

He  did  not  say,  "  I  knew  it  would  be  so,"  nor  "  You  are  to 
blame  :"  he  only  said,  "  Don't  cry,  Lidy — don't  cry,"  and  putting 
down  his  book,  hurried  away.  In  half  an  hour  he  came  back, 
and  George  with  him,  staggering  and  swearing,  his  clothes 
soiled  and  his  face  dirty — bleeding  at  one  side  where  he  had 
fallen  against  the  rough  ground.  He  would  not  be  persuaded 
to  have  his  face  washed,  and  his  clothes  brushed,  nor  would  he 
sit  down  or  go  to  bed,  nor  do  anything  else,  but  swear  that  in 
spite  of  old  Casper  or  his  old  sister  he  would  go  back  to  the 
tavern,  he  had  enough  good  friends  there. 

Casper  had  returned  to  his  book,  and  not  till  Eliza  begged 
him  to  interfere,  did  he  speak  one  word,  or  seem  to  notice  what 
was  passing,  but  he  no  sooner  laid  his  hand  on  the  boy,  and 


280  ELIZA   ANDERSON. 

spoke  a  few  words  in  his  quiet,  determined  manner,  than  he 
ceased  to  offer  resistance,  aud  was  led  away  to  bed  without 
more  ado. 

When  the  supper  was  eaten,  Casper  would  have  gone,  but 
Eliza  said,  "  No,  I  want  to  talk  about  George." 

"  Very  well,"  he  said,  seating  himself,  "  what  have  you  to 
say  ?" 

Eliza  knew  not  what  to  say — she  knew  that  she  was  troubled 
and  tormented,  that  George  was  idle  enough  and  unpromising 
enough,  but  that  she  loved  him  after  all,  and  could  not  bear 
that  he  should  be  compelled  to  right  ways  by  any  one  but  her- 
self. This  was  the  amount  of  all  she  could  say. 

A  clear,  practical,  common  sense  view  of  things  the  school- 
master took.  He  loved  Eliza,  and  he  said  so,  he  admired  all 
that  was  good  and  discreet  and  womanly  in  her,  and  he  said 
so  :  he  did  not  love  George,  and  he  disliked  and  disapproved  of 
her  wavering  and  compromising  course  with  him.  He  had  no 
great  hopes  of  him  at  the  best,  nevertheless  he  could  bring  him 
under  subjection  in  some  way,  if  Eliza  would  give  him  the  right 
to  do  so. 

He  told  her  what  his  fortunes  and  prospects  were,  without 
exaggeration  or  depreciation  ;  he  numbered  his  years,  every  oue 
of  them  up  before  her,  and  her  own,  which  were  not  half  so 
many,  and  then  he  said  that  all  he  was,  and  all  he  had,  and  all 
he  could  do,  which  was  not  much,  were  hers  to  accept  if  she 
would,  but  with  the  understanding  that  George  should  be  sub- 
ject to  his  authority. 

Eliza  reminded  him  of  her  promise  to  her  dead  father  :  how 
could  she  break  that  and  be  at  peace  with  herself?  and,  more- 
over, he  admitted  that  he  did  not  love  George,  and  how  could 


ELIZA   ANDERSON.  281 

she  hope  the  boy  would  be  made  any  better  by  him  ?  The 
schoolmaster  argued  that  if  she  were  willing  to  trust  herself 
with  him,  it  was  natural  that  she  should  be  willing  to  trust  the 
management  of  her  brother  :  and  as  for  the  sacred  promise  she 
laid  so  much  stress  on,  it  was  a  bad  promise  exacted  by  a  bad 
father,  and  better  broken  than  kept.  And  now,  he  concluded, 
with  the  calmness  of  a  third  party  summing  up  evidence,  "  You 
have  all  the  facts  before  you — look  at  them  and  decide  as  your 
conscience  dictates." 

The  facts  were  unpleasant  ones,  some  of  them,  and  Eliza  did 
not  like  to  look  them  in  the  face — she  did  not  like  to  say  defi- 
nitely what  she  would  do  nor  when  she  would  do  it.  When 
George  was  older  and  provided  for,  or  capable  of  providing 
for  himself,  their  lives  should  be  joined  and  flow  through  all 
fortune  in  a  sentimental  sunshine.  All  of  which  to  the  school- 
master was  nothing  but  moonshine.  With  it  he  was  not  contented 
— he  wished  to  see  the  ground  he  stood  upon,  whatever  it  was, 
and  finally,  when  they  separated,  it  had  been  agreed  that  when- 
ever George  should  be  provided  for  they  should  be  married  ; 
and  that  during  school  hours  he  should  be  under  the  master's 
control,  and  at  other  times  Eliza's  will  should  be  his  law. 

Neither  was  satisfied  with  this  arrangement,  for  both  foresaw 
it  would  result  badly,  in  the  beginning. 

CHAPTER    III. 

The  breakfast  was  a  pleasant  one.  George  had  been  work- 
ing in  the  garden  for  two  hours,  he  said,  and  should  have  half 
the  seeds  in  the  ground  before  dinner. 

Eliza  was  greatly  elated,  and  saw  the  fulfillment  of  her  best 
hopes  speedily  coming.  She  could  not  praise  bi»u  enough,  and 


'2X2  ELIZA.   ANDERSON. 

she  could  not  help  thinking  the  schoolmaster  a  little  ungener- 
ous in  accepting  what  seemed  to  her  a  wonderful  performance, 
as  a  matter  of  course. 

"  Don't  you  think,  Casper,"  she  said,  at  last,  determined  to 
force  some  praise  from  him,  "  that  George  is  a  pretty  good  boy, 
after  all  ?" 

She  had  better  not  have  asked  it.  He  had  simply  done  his 
duty,  Casper  said,  but  the  motive  seemed  to  him  questionable. 
It  was  partly  the  result  of  shame,  and  partly  an  effort  to  buy 
off  punishment.  As  soon  as  George  betrayed  indications  of  any 
thorough  reformation,  he  should  be  glad  to  acknowledge  it. 

Pretty  industriously  for  half  a  day  George  kept  at  work,  and 
with  the  assistance  of  Eliza,  part  of  the  seeds  were  got  into  the 
ground,  and  when  at  noon  he  related  his  achievement  to  Casper, 
she  made  no  mention  of  the  hand  she  had  lent. 

"  Now  you  are  to  go  to  school,"  she  said,  when  the  dinner 
was  past  ;  but  George  replied  that  he  was  too  tired,  and  could 
not  learn  if  he  did.  With  much  coaxing  and  many  promises,  he 
was  induced  to  set  out  at  last :  but  one  excuse  for  loitering 
offered  itself  after  another,  and  finally  at  the  pond  he  stopped, 
and  having  pelted  the  geese  for  an  hour,  he  stretched  himself  in 
the  shavings  before  the  cooper's  shop,  and  slept  away  another 
hour  :  another  was  passed  in  shaving  hoop-poles  and  piling 
staves,  and  then  the  school  was  dismissed,  and  joining  the  other 
boys  the  truant  went  home. 

With  a  good  deal  of  coaxing,  and  hiring,  and  scolding,  and 
some  wholesome  fear  of  the  master,  the  garden  was  at  last 
planted  ;  but  Eliza,  though  she  tried  to  conceal  it,  had  done 
most  of  the  work,  and  all  the  while  George  had  only  gone  to 
school  when  he  chose. 


ELIZA   ANDEBSOX.  283 

Oiie  day  he  told  his  sister  he  knew  a  little  boy  who  had  made 
dollars  the  last  year  by  selling  eggs,  and  if  she  would  buy  a 
hen  and  a  dozen  chickens,  oh  he  would  be  the  best  boy  in  the 
world,  and  do  everything  she  desired.  He  knew  where  he 
could  get  them  if  he  only  had  two  dollars. 

Of  course  Eliza  gave  the  money.  She  would  work  a  little 
later  every  night  and  soon  earn  it,  and  of  course  she  told  Gas 
per  about  it,  and  insisted  that  he  should  see  in  it  great  specu- 
lative ability  on  the  part  of  George,  but  he  could  only  see  that 
she  had  thrown  away  her  money,  and  said  so,  which  displeased 
her,  of  course,  and  there  was  an  interval  of  estrangement. 

The  seeds  were  soon  mostly  picked  out  of  the  garden  beds, 
and  the  beds  scratched  level  with  the  paths,  and  then  the 
mother  hen  came  daily  home  from  travelling  through  the  weeds, 
or  from  some  neighbor's  garden  with  a  broken  legged  chicken, 
or  with  a  diminished  number,  till  finally  she  drowned  herself  in 
trying  to  rescue  the  last  one  from  a  pail  of  milk,  and  so  ended 
the  garden  and  the  chicken  speculation. 

George  now  professed  himself  inclined  to  return  to  school. 
He  believed  he  would  be  a  teacher  after  all — Eliza  concluded 
his  strongest  bent  was  towards  learning,  and  he  went  to 
school. 

But  his  zeal  soon  abated — he  liked  work  better — the  cooper 
would  pay  him  four  shillings  per  day  ;  and  packing  his  books 
he  went  to  work  with  the  cooper.  Eliza  was  telling  the  mas- 
ter how  well  he  was  doing,  when  he  came  in  with  one  hand 
bandaged  and  bleeding — he  had  cut  off  two  fingers  I 

In  the  course  of  a  few  months  the  wound  was  healed,  but  he 
should  never  be  able  to  work,  and  one  day,  about  the  middle 
of  the  afternoon,  found  him  in  school.  He  soon  told  his  sister 


284  ELIZA   ANDERSON. 

— "  old  Casper"  could  not  teach  him  anything.  Perhaps  it 
would  be  the  very  making  of  him  to  send  him  to  the  academy 
three  miles  away.  George  would  walk  the  distance,  the  exer- 
cise would  be  beneficial,  and  she  must  manage  some  way,  she 
hardly  knew  how,  to  pay  for  it.  His  old  hat  would  not  do  to 
wear  to  the  academy,  he  must  have  a  new  one — his  old  coat 
would  not  do,  the  tailor  would  furnish  one,  and  Eliza  would 
sew  for  it.  At  last  arrangements  were  concluded,  and  he  went 
to  the  academy.  He  soon  discovered  the  walk  to  be  too  long, 
it  so  overcame  him  that  he  could  not  study.  He  knew  of  a 
horse  he  could  hire  to  ride  for  a  trifle,  and  the  horse  was 
hired  and  George  rode  to  school,  and  Eliza  worked  later  into 
the  night  and  earlier  in  the  morning.  She  had  never  been  so 
hopeful — he  would  be  able  to  teach  in  the  academy  after 
a  while,  and  all  her  troubles  past.  If  he  had  the  time  for 
books,  he  said,  that  was  consumed  in  riding  to  and  from  school, 
and  then  if  he  could  have  a  room  and  study  as  the  other  boys 
did,  of  evenings,  he  should  get  on  twice  as  well.  So  the  horse 
was  given  up.  It  took  almost  as  much  to  pay  for  riding  as  to 
hire  board,  Eliza  said,  and  George  was  provided  with  board 
and  lodging  at  the  academy,  and  patiently  she  toiled  on. 

The  days  were  the  happiest  now  she  had  ever  seen,  Casper 
was  all  kindness  when  the  boy  was  out  of  his  sight  ;  they 
would  be  so  happy,  and  her  toils  would  all  be  over  before  long 
— she  was  telling  him  so,  and  he  listening  in  half  credulous 
delight,  for  what  lover  has  not  some  faith  in  his  mistress,  when 
George,  books  and  bundles  and  all,  strode  into  the  house,  and  a 
great  chilly,  black  shadow  came  in  with  him. 

He  did  not  like  the  boys  at  the  academy,  nor  the  teachers, 
nor  anything.  He  could  not  eat  at  his  boarding-house — he  was 


ELIZA   ANDERSON.  285 

sick  with  all,  and  believed  he  was  going  to  die  :  and  Eliza 
believed  he  was  sick,  and  feared  he  would  die  ;  but  the  master 
neither  believed  the  one  nor  feared  the  other,  and  so  the  old 
estrangement  came  again. 

When  the  youth  professed  himself  well  he  went  to  work 
with  the  tailor,  but  did  not  like  it,  and  so  was  home  for  awhile  ; 
then  he  went  with  the  blacksmith,  but  that  was  too  hard  :  then 
he  was  home  for  awhile,  helping  her,  Eliza  said  ;  then  he  went 
into  the  store,  grew  tired  and  was  home  for  awhile,  helping 
Eliza  again. 

She  was  discouraged  now,  and  a  good  deal  in  debt.  She 
was  growing  old  faster  than  years  made  her  grow  old  ;  the 
rose  died  in  her  cheek,  and  her  eyes  lost  their  lustre — even  the 
master  did  not  praise  them  any  more,  and  this  made  her  sad- 
der than  all. 

Suddenly  George  formed  the  resolution  of  going  to  school 
again.  He  believed  "  old  Casper  "  was  a  pretty  good  teacher, 
after  all. 

Eliza  began  to  think  she  would  allow  Casper  the  right  to 
control  him  now,  by  becoming  his  wife,  but  he  did  not  urge  the 
marriage  any  more.  She  was  almost  resolved  to  approach  the 
matter  herself.  George  should  be  kept  at  school  whether  he 
would  or  not — she  would  tell  Casper  so  that  night.  She  arose 
with  the  resolution  and  looked  towards  the  school-house,  and 
there  came  George,  running  crookedly  home,  his  eyes  blind 
with  tears,  and  holding  up  the  crippled  hand  as  if  it  had  been 
mutilated  anew. 

"  The  master  had  struck  his  poor  hand  with  a  rule,"  he  said, 
"  and  all  for  laughing  because  he  saw  him  kiss  Sophie  Swain, 
and  not  because  he  did  anything  wrong." 


286  ELIZA    ANDERSON. 

There  was  a  quick  revulsion  of  sympathies  and  resolves  on 
the  part  of  Eliza.  Sophie  Swain  was  a  pretty  girl  of  sixteen, 
the  daughter  of  the  richest  man  in  town.  She  saw  plainly 
enough  now  why  Casper  said  nothing  about  marriage,  and  she 
thought  it  was  too  bad  that  he  should  take  to  abusing  her 
poor  brother  as  well  as  herself  on  account  of  his  charmer.  As 
long  as  she  lived,  George  should  not  be  maltreated  in  that  way, 
that  he  shouldn't. 

All  this  and  more,  Eliza  resolved  she  would  say,  and  all  this 
and  more  she  did  say  in  tones  of  no  measured  mildness.  Of 
course  she  did  not  care  how  often  the  master  kissed  Sophie 
Swain,  nor  how  soon  he  married  her,  if  he  wanted  to.  She  was 
sure  she  would  not  stand  in  his  way  if  she  could,  and  she  knew 
very  well  that  she  could  not  ;  he  had  ceased  to  feel  even  the  com- 
monest interest  in  her.  But  one  thing  she  would  and  could  do 
— she  would  prevent  him  from  beating  poor  George  to  death. 

When  she  had  exhausted  all  epithets  of  reproach  and  denun- 
ciation, and  was  still  from  sheer  prostration,  the  master  replied 
in  his  perfectly  quiet  and  self-possessed  way,  which  to  Eliza 
was  especially  provoking,  that  it  was  true  as  George  said.  He 
had  kissed  Sophie  Swain,  that  he  could  not  be  blind  to  her 
beauty,  and  she  seemed  not  averse  to  his  acknowledgment  of 
it.  He  had  made  no  love  to  her,  and  did  not  propose  to  if 
Eliza  would  grant  him  the  happiness  of  continuing  his  suit,  or 
rather  if  she  would  be  reasonable  and  terminate  it  in  marriage, 
this  he  professed  himself  willing,  nay,  anxious  to  conclude  at 
once.  Not  only  his  heart  but  his  judgment,  he  said,  sanctioned 
the  proposal  he  had  made  her. 

"  It  was  true  he  had  struck  George,"  he  said,  "  but  not  in- 
juriously, and  Eliza  should  have  sense  enough  to  know  it. 


ELIZA    ASTDERSON.  287 

And  besides,  the  youth  merited  twice  as  much  as  he  had  re- 
ceived. It  was  the  first  time  he  ever  used  the  liberty  herself 
bestowed  on  him,  and  he  insisted  that  then  and  there  their  rela- 
tions should  be  definitely  settled." 

In  all  he  said  he  neither  elevated  nor  lowered  his  voice  in 
the  least.  If  he  saw  Eliza's  tears,  he  did  not  seem  to  see 
them,  nor  did  he  once  touch  her  hand,  nor  move  one  inch  to- 
wards her,  but  having  concluded  what  he  had  to  say  awaited 
her  answer,  snapping  the  blade  of  his  pen-knife  backward  and 
forward,  and  not  even  lifting  his  eyes  towards  her. 

This  conduct  was  certainly  badly  calculated  to  make  a  pas- 
sionate woman  reasonable. 

Checking  her  tears  in  very  anger,  she  told  him  he  was  a 
strange  lover.  He  replied  that  he  had  a  strange  mistress,  and 
besides  she  must  remember  he  was  not  a  passionate  boy.  Eliza 
begged  his  pardon.  She  had,  for  the  moment,  forgotten  that 
only  his  judgment  sanctioned  his  proposal  to  her,  and  that  his 
heart  was  averse  to  it — interested,  doubtless,  in  a  much  younger 
and  handsomer  woman. 

"  If  you  will  make  gratuitous  interpretations,  you  must 
make  them,"  said  the  master,  his  lip  curling  slightly;  "but  I 
have  no  replies  for  them." 

Eliza  insisted  that  she  had  interpreted  his  words  legitimately, 
and  that  for  her  part  she  saw  no  reason  why  he  should  drag 
his  judgment  in  at  all.  To  which  he  replied  most  provokingly, 
that  he  feared  his  judgment  had  been  dragged  forward  less 
than  it  should  have  been  ! 

There  were  some  more  words,  as  angry  and  unreasonable  as 
they  could  be  on  one  side,  and  most  severely  reasonable  and 
concise  on  the  other.  When  they  parted,  it  was  with  the  de- 


ELIZA   ANDERSON. 

claration,  on  the  part  of  Eliza,  that  Mr.  Rodwick  was  free  to 
use  his  judgment  as  he  liked,  for  the  future,  it  was  nothing  to 
her.  And  when  he  asked  if  he  might  not  hope  for  leniency, 
she  said,  "  No  1" 

CHAPTER    IV. 

Years  ago  all  this  happened,  and  what  either  party,  or  both 
have  suffered,  only  themselves  know.  The  same  house,  shabbier 
than  it  used  to  be,  with  the  one  uncurtained  window  towards 
the  street,  is  standing  yet.  Sometimes  in  the  evening  twilight 
you  will  see  there  a  plain,  pale  woman,  with  grey  hair,  sewing 
by  the  last  light.  She  does  not  smile,  nor  look  as  if  she  had 
smiled  for  many  years,  or  ever  would  again.  Often  three 
bright,  laughing  children  go  in  at  the  gate  with  parcels  of 
sewing,  and  they  climb  over  her  chair  and  kiss  her,  and  wonder 
why  she  is  not  gay  and  laughing  like  their  mother  ;  and  when 
they  go  away,  they  are  sure  to  leave  more  money  than  she  has 
earned,  behind  them  ;  they  are  Casper's  children,  and  the 
woman  is  Eliza  Anderson. 

Sometimes  you  will  see  there  a  ragged,  wretched  man,  lame 
in  the  right  leg,  and  with  one  arm  off  at  the  elbow — his  face 
has  in  it  a  look  of  habitual  suffering,  of  baffled  and  purposeless 
suffering,  as  if  all  the  world  was  set  against  him,  and  he  could 
not  help  it  ;  and  that  is  George. 

Sometimes  in  the  night,  when  all  is  dark  and  still,  a  white- 
haired  man  leans  over  the  broken  gate,  forgetting  the  white 
wall  of  his  own  garden,  and  all  the  roses  that  are  in  ic,  and  the 
pretty  children  that  are  smiling  in  their  dreaming  :  aud  even 
the  wife,  gone  to  sleep  too,  in  the  calm,  not  to  say  indifferent 


ELIZA  ANDERSON.  289 

confidence,  that  he  will  take  care  of  himself,  and  come  home 
when  he  gets  ready.  He  leans  there  a  long  while  thinking, 
not  of  what  is,  but  of  what  might  have  been,  and  wondering 
whether  eternity  will  make  whole  the  broken  blessings  of  time. 
That  is  Casper,  to  be  sure— who  else  should  it  be  ? 


13 


MRS.    WALDEN'S   CONFIDANT. 


FOURTH  OF  JULY  1  The  beating  of  a  drum  and  the  scream- 
ing of  a  fife  were  heard  in  the  distance — some  few  thin  clouds 
moved  about  the  sky,  as  if  to  keep  the  light  from  dazzling — 
the  air  was  soft  and  refreshing,  not  over  warm,  just  sufficiently 
in  motion  so  stir  the  young  thrifty  corn,  and  bring  the  scent 
from  the  tomato  and  potato  vines — the  orchards  looked  well, 
and  the  harvests  generally  had  fulfilled  a  good  promise.  The 
people  all  through  the  neighborhood  were  glad,  and  thought 
their  village  was  about  as  thriving  a  village  as  was  to  be  found 
in  that  part  of  the  country — and  so  they  well  might  think  ; 
the  best  farms  commanded  fifty  dollars  per  acre — the  soil  was 
productive,  and  there  was  abundance  of  wood,  water  and 
stone  ;  fine  clay  for  making  bricks  ;  besides  other  advantages 
which  made  the  farmers  about  naturally  a  little  proud — and 
this  pride  extended  from  their  own  possessions  to  the  property 
of  their  neighbors,  and  took  in  the  fifty  lots  and  thirty  dwellings, 
the  meeting-house,  two  grocery  stores  and  tavern,  which  were 
the  pride  of  the  Clovernook  neighborhood.  There  was  talk  of  a 
seminary,  and  some  prospect  of  the  erection  of  half  a  dozen  new 
dwellings,  besides  the  certain  addition  of  a  third  story  to  the 

890 


MBS.  WALDEN'S  CO>TLDANT.  291 

tavern.  The  execution  of  a  new  sign  was  already  in  commis- 
sion, and  it  was  whispered  the  device  was  to  be  an  eagle  soar- 
ing towards  the  sun,  with  the  motto  beneath,  "  upward  and  on- 
ward." The  commission  had  been  intrusted  to  the  wagon- 
maker,  whose  ability  for  the  task  nobody  doubted.  There  was 
some  regret  that  the  sign  could  not  have  been  completed  and 
swinging  before  the  "  North  American  Hotel  "  on  the  glorious 
Fourth,  but  the  regret  was  not  enough  to  mar  the  general  joy- 
ousuess,  and  as  for  the  landlord,  the  excellent  Peter  Holt,  he 
had  a  secret  project  of  his  own  that  the  completion  of  the 
third  story,  and  the  putting  forth  of  the  new  sign,  should  give 
eclat  to  the  general  training  in  the  fall.  Therefore  he  com- 
pressed his  lips  and  put  his  face  under  a  dubious  cloud  when 
inquired  of  concerning  the  sign,  saying  simply,  "  we  shall  see 
what  we  shall  see." 

The  people  about  the  neighborhood  had  been  astir  before 
the  cock  on  the  day  I  write  of,  for  a  general  celebration  was  to 
be  held  in  the  village,  and  in  addition  to  the  usual  ceremonies, 
two  of  the  oldest  men  in  the  neighborhood — real  Revolutionary 
soldiers  ;  were  to  head  the  procession,  which  was  to  form  at  the 
North  American  Hotel  precisely  at  ten  o'clock,  who  were  to 
bear  between  them  the  American  flag ;  and  on  each  side  of 
them  little  girls  were  to  walk  with  baskets  of  flowers,  garlands 
for  the  conquering  heroes. 

The  village,  which  stood  on  a  rising  ground,  could  be  seen 
two  or  three  miles  away,  from  positions  where  no  woodland 
intervened,  and  now,  even  higher  than  the  steeple  of  the  church, 
shone  the  bright  colors  at  the  top  of  the  "  liberty  pole." 

Not  more  than  a  mile  away,  and  plainly  in  view,  not  only 
of  the  steeple  and  the  liberty  pole,  but  also  of  the  people  gather- 


292  MBS.  WALDEN'S  CONFIDANT. 

ing  in  front  of  the  hotel,  and  in  hearing  of  the  music,  lived  the 
family  of  Timothy  Walden,  consisting  in  all  of  husband  and 
wife,  Matilda — a  young  woman  of  eighteen — and  two  boys,  of 
fourteen  and  sixteen  years. 

They  had  been  early  astir  in  common  with  their  neighbors, 
but  not  joyously  astir — they  were  not  people  who  joined  in 
celebrations — why,  nobody  knew  ;  they  did  not  know  them- 
selves— but  they  honestly  believed  themselves  too  poor  to  be 
justified  in  spending  so  much  time  and  money. 

There  had  been  some  hope  on  the  part  of  the  young  people, 
up  to  the  last  moment,  that  they  might  be  permitted  to  join  in 
the  festivities  of  the  occasion.  Even  to  drive  the  geese  from 
the  common,  and  assist  in  the  removal  of  hoop-poles  and 
staves  preparatory  to  the  grand  march,  would  have  been  es- 
teemed a  privilege  by  the  boys,  and  to  be  allowed  the  most 
obscure  position  where  she  might  see  the  procession  and  the 
green  arbor  over  the  dinner-table,  would  have  made  holiday 
enough  to  Matilda,  and  she  would  have  been  quite  willing 
to  forego  the  white  dress  and  pink  ribbons  which  the  young 
ladies  generally  had. 

When  the  breakfast  was  concluded,  Mr.  Walden  went  out 
to  the  harvest-field  as  usual,  and  apparently  did  not  once  think 
of  a  suspension  of  labors.  Sullenly  the  two  boys  followed, 
half  wishing  it  might  rain  and  spoil  all  the  fun  for  other  peo- 
ple, for  nothing  so  embitters  the  heart  as  the  constant  denial 
of  innocent  pleasures.  And  here  let  me  say  that  Mr.  Wal- 
den was  the  owner  of  sixty  acres  of  as  good  land  as  was  to  be 
found  in  the  neighborhood,  besides  all  necessary  horses,  carts, 
and  implements  of  labor  generally.  His  fences  were  in  repair, 
and  a  thrifty  orchard  and  commodious  barn  had  rewarded  his 


MES.  WALDEN'S  CONFIDANT.  293 

industry.  A  house,  too,  he  owned,  or  rather  the  foundation  of 
a  house,  for  it  was  unplastered,  uupainted,  and  altogether  un- 
furnished except  the  actual  necessities  about  the  kitchen  and 
sleeping-rooms.  The  sun  streamed  across  the  bare  floors 
through  the  uncurtained  windows,  and  great  piles  of  bedding 
and  heaps  of  rags  and  wool  filled  the  empty  rooms — there  were 
no  flowers  about  the  yard,  and  the  garden  in  the  rear  was 
quite  overgrown  with  weeds. 

A  patient,  hard-working  woman  was  Mrs.  Walden — but  she 
was  not  hopeful  any  more — she  said  she  was  tired  of  hoping. 
She  had  tried  long  and  hard  to  get  a  little  beforehand  in 
the  world,  and  what  had  it  amounted  to  ?  Thoughts  of 
this  sort  were  busy  in  her  mind  on  the  beautiful  Fourth  of 
July  aforementioned.  It  had  never  been  her  habit  to  indulge 
in  hard  thoughts,  but  some  how  that  day  she  could  not  help  it 
— the  house  had  never  looked  so  naked  and  comfortless ;  she  had 
never  seen  so  little  prospect  of  ever  having  anything,  and  in  her 
absence  of  mind  she  let  fall  the  coffee-pot  and  broke  it  in  pieces 
as  she  cleared  the  table  ;  true,  it  had  leaked  a  long  time,  but 
then  it  was  better  than  none — dear  me,  what  would  become  of 
them  1  She  had  done  her  part — nobody  could  say  she  had 
not — who  then  was  to  blame  ?  if  it  was  not  Timothy  she  did 
not  know  who  was.  This  suspicion  once  allowed  to  come  into 
her  mind,  made  room  for  many  accusations,  and  she  put  to- 
gether all  the  Fourth  of  Julys  and  other  holidays  she  had 
spent  at  home  working  hard,  and  no  thanks  from  nobody, 
which  meant  from  Timothy.  They  had  never  had  a  Christmas 
dinner  nor  a  New- Year's  dinner  so  long  as  they  had  kept 
house — and  who  was  to  blame  ? — why  somebody  must  be  ;  but 
no  matter  for  that,  she  must  try  to  do  her  duty  at  any  rate  —so 


294  MRS.    WALDEN'S   CONFIDANT. 

she  worked  on,  thinking  harder  and  harder  things.  Happen- 
ing to  look  towards  the  field,  she  saw  the  two  boys  turning 
somersets  in  the  shadow  of  a  tree,  for  they  felt  it  to  be  their 
right  to  be  idle  on  the  Fourth  of  July,  and  for  the  moment  she 
felt  as  if  she  was  all  the  one  that  did  anything  to  any  profit,  and 
this  the  more,  perhaps,  that  as  she  looked  she  saw  Timothy 
making  his  way  to  the  fence,  where  young  Dr.  Meredith,  who 
was  just  come  home  from  prosecuting  his  professional  studies 
in  a  distant  city,  was  waiting  to  shake  hands. 

"  Dr.  Meredith,  indeed  1"  exclaimed  the  unamiable  woman,  "  a 
great  doctor  I  guess  he  is."  And  if  her  supposition  that  it  was 
impossible  for  John  Meredith  to  be  a  doctor  could  have  been 
analyzed,  it  would  have  been  found  to  consist  chiefly  of  the  facts 
that  she  bad  known  John  Meredith  when  he  had  but  two 
shirts,  she  had  known  the  colors  of  all  his  boyhood  coats,  and 
how  hard  his  mother  worked  and  how  much  she  denied  herself 
for  the  sake  of  educating  him  ;  and  more  than  this,  she  knew 
his  mother  before  him,  and  all  her  family.  That  she  had  ever 
known  John  to  be  other  than  a  good  and  obedient  boy  she 
would  not  say — but  what  of  that  ? — there  he  was,  dressed  finely 
and  going  to  pass  the  day  in  idleness — perhaps  he  would  read 
the  "  Declaration  "  and  be  called  "  doctor  "  by  some  silly  young 
girls  at  any  rate. 

Then  her  thoughts  naturally  reverted  to  her  own  daughter, 
and  she  became  aware  that  her  wheel  was  still,  which  added 
to  her  irritation,  and  in  no  mild  terms  she  enjoined  her  to  go 
forward  with  her  work. 

Still,  ever  and  again  there  was  silence  in  the  room  where 
Matty  should  have  been  spinning — how  could  she  keep  her  eyes 
from  the  public  road  filled  with  wagons  and  carriages,  and 


MRS.  WARDEN'S  COIOTDAOT.  295 

young  men  and  women  on  horseback  and  on  foot,  all  with 
happy  faces  and  dressed  gaily,  going  to  the  Fourth  of  July. 
Among  the  rest  there  is  one  who  looks  earnestly  towards  her 
and  bows  very  low,  and  close  against  the  pane  she  presses  her  face 
before  she  sees  it  is  Dr.  Meredith  ;  but  her  sweetest  smile  and 
a  double  recognition  are  given,  for  though  she  has  played 
"  hide  and  seek"  with  him  many  a  time — aye,  and  even  beaten 
him  in  the  spelling  class  at  school,  she  is  pleased  to  see  that 
he  has  come  home,  and  never  once  thinks  it  is  not  possible  for 
him  to  be  a  doctor.  "  Dear  me  1"  says  Mrs.  Walden  as  the 
wheel  stops  again,  "  well,  I  must  work  all  the  harder  for  the 
idleness  of  the  rest,  I  suppose,"  and  with  a  shining  tin  pan  in 
her  hand  she  makes  her  way  to  the  garden.  She  don't  know 
what  she  will  find,  she  don't  suppose  she  will  find  anything, 
and  sure  enough  she  does  not  ;  the  cucumber-vines  are  yellow, 
and  seem  to  be  dying  ;  there  is  not  a  cucumber  to  be  found 
larger  than  her  little  finger,  and  as  for  the  tomatoes,  they  might 
just  as  well  never  have  been  planted  ;  there  are  a  few 
onions  run  up  to  seed  among  the  weeds  ;  the  cabbages  are  not 
heading  at  all,  and  she  can't  tell  where  the  beet  bed  was  made. 
So,  through  nettles  and  burs  she  makes  her  way  out  agaiu, 
stopping  for  a  moment  at  the  currant-bushes,  as  a  forlorn  hope 
— she  finds  a  few  poor  little  berries,  but  if  sho  picks  them  now 
there  won't  be  any  left,  so  she  leaves  them  for  a  greater  emer- 
gency, and  with  an  empty  basin  returns  to  the  house.  The 
flies  are  buzzing  thick  along  the  ceiling,  and  one  or  two  old 
hens  are  picking  the  crumbs  from  off  the  floor — they  ought  to 
have  plenty,  but  they  have  not — there  are  not  more  than  half 
a  dozen  chickens  in  all,  about  the  farm  ;  the  hens  don't  do 
well — she  don't  know  why  ;  possibly  there  is  some  fruit  in  the 


296  MRS.  WARDEN'S  CONFIDANT. 

orchard  large  enough  to  cook,  but  she  don't  know  as  she  will 
traipse  there  after  it,  if  there  is  ;  there  is  part  of  an  old  ham 
left,  she  will  cook  some  of  that  for  dinner,  and  when  that  is 
gone  she  don't  know  what  they  will  do.  She  is  mending  the 
fire  when  Timothy  comes  to  the  well  for  water,  and  seeing 
pieces  of  the  broken  coffee-pot  says  : 

"  How  did  this  happen,  Sally  ?" 

"  I  let  it  fall,"  she  answers,  "  and  I  don't  care  if  I  did." 

"  Why,  Sally,  what  put  you  in  such  a  humor  ?  I  am  sorry 
the  coffee-pot  is  broken,  but  I  did  not  mean  to  blame  you  ;"  and 
he  adds  by  way  of  lessening  the  disaster,  "  see  here,  I  have 
been  doing  mischief,  too,"  and  he  exhibits  a  hole  in  his  shirt 
sleeve  which  he  had  caught  in  a  brier  and  tore. 

Sally  does  not  speak,  for  she  secretly  believes  that  her  hus- 
band does  blame  her,  perhaps  from  the  fact  that  she  is  blaming  him. 

"  I  am  afraid  our  Fourth  of  July  friends  will  get  wet,"  says 
Timothy,  looking  up  at  the  sky,  and  making  a  last  effort  to 
elicit  some  notice  from  Sally  before  he  goes  back  to  the  field. 

But  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  refuses  to  speak,  and  with 
tears  brimming  up  in  her  eyes,  goes  to  the  closet  and  takes  from 
the  shelf  a  bundle  of  old  patched  and  darned  shirts,  and  sitting 
down,  adds  patches  to  patches,  and  darns  to  darns — there  are  a 
dozen  good  new  ones  on  the  shelf,  to  be  sure,  but  if  they  were 
worn  out  they  would  not  be  new — so  with  the  tears  falling  fast, 
she  works  on.  There  is  a  rap  on  the  open  door,  and  looking 
up  she  sees  Mrs.  Eliza  Bates — a  neighbor  whom  she  has  known 
well  ever  since  her  marriage,  and  before,  in  fact.  Indeed,  they 
were  quite  confidants  at  one  time.  But  their  intimacy  has  not 
been  very  great  for  a  long  time — Mrs.  Waldeu  has  never  felt 
that  it  was  right  to  have  any  confidant  but  her  husband — and 


MES.    WAI/DEN'S    CONFIDANT.  297 

it  is  the  fault  of  Mrs.  Bates  that  she  is  given  to  talking  over 
much,  and  Mrs.  Walden  knows  it.  She  has  had,  too,  great 
worldly  prosperity,  and  this  has  cooled  the  friendship  formerly 
existing  between  them,  perhaps.  But  sympathy  is  sweet,  and 
when  Mrs.  Bates  says  in  tones  of  real  kindness,  "  Why,  my  dear 
Sally,  what  can  be  the  matter  with  you  ?"  at  the  same  time 
putting  her  arm  kindly  about  her  neck,  she  answered,  crying 
all  the  time,  "  I  am  glad  you  have  come,  Eliza,  for  I  felt  lone- 
some and  bad,  sitting  here  alone." 

"  I  knew  I  should  find  you  at  home,  and  so  while  all  our  folks 
were  gone  to  the  Fourth  of  July,  I  thought  I  would  come  and 
see  you,  though  you  don't  never  come  to  see  me." 

"  How  good  you  are,"  replies  Mrs.  Walden.  "  I  suppose 
everybody  knows  they  can  find  me  at  home  of  holidays,  by  this 
time,"  and  she  hides  her  eyes  in  her  apron. 

Mrs.  Bates  holds  her  hand  saying,  "  really,  Sally,  it's  too 
bad  ;"  after  which  she  makes  moan  without  the  use  of  words, 
for  a  few  minutes. 

"  Don't,  Sally,  don't  cry,"  she  says,  at  length,  "  but  tell  me 
all  about  it  ;  a  body  must  have  some  confidant — now,  I  tell  my 
daughter  Kate  all  my  troubles — but  some  mothers  don't  say  to 
their  children  all  they  feel."  And  in  thus  drawing  out  her 
friend,  Mrs.  Bates  was  actuated  by  the  kindest  feelings. 

"  I  suppose  we  all  have  our  troubles,"  sobbed  Sally  Walden, 
for  Mrs.  Bates  had  spoken  of  hers,  and  therefore  she  could 
admit  her  private  griefs  more  freely,  and  Mrs.  Bates  rejoined 
quickly,  "to  be  sure,  Sally,  I  know  I  have  mine.  Now,  if  you 
had  seen  what  a  fuss  there  was  at  our  house  this  morning  about 
going  to  the  Fourth  of  July,  you  would  think  you  were  not  the 
only  person  in  the  world  that  need  cry  ;  I  got  so  worried  out 

13* 


298  MRS.  WALDEN'S  CONFIDANT. 

that  I  just  gave  up,  aud  said  I  wouldn't  go  at  all.  I  tell  you, 
Sally,  my  life  is  nearly  tired  out  of  me  in  one  way  and  another. 
Now  Peter  Bates  is  just  the  hardest  man  in  the  world  to  get 
along  with,  and  if  I  did  not  manage  and  twist  aud  economize 
every  way,  I  could  not  get  along  ;  but  I  am  determined  that 
my  family  shan't  be  a  whit  behind  anybody  else."  And  here 
she  went  on  to  explain  how  she  had  taken  her  own  dresses  and 
made  them  over  for  Kate  ;  how  she  had  managed  to  make  old 
things  about  the  house  look  almost  as  well  as  new,  and  when  at 
length  she  stopped  to  take  breath,  Mrs.  Walden  could  not  help 
giving  some  of  her  own  grievances  utterance  ;  she  did  not  want 
to  say  anything  against  Timothy,  she  did  not  intend  it,  but 
she  did.  "  It's  too  bad,"  said  Eliza  Bates,  "  and  though 
Timothy  Walden  is  as  good  a  man  as  ever  was,  and  I  believe 
means  to  do  what  is  right,  he  don't  do  his  part  by  you,  and  I 
don't  know  as  it's  any  more  harm  to  say  it  than  think  it,  and  I 
have  thought  it  a  good  while,  and  I  am  not  the  only  one. 
Everybody  knows,"  she  continued,  "  that  you  never  spend 
money — that  you  are  always  at  home  and  always  at  work,  and 
can't  help  saying  how  does  it  happen  that  the  house  is  never 
finished,  and  that  Matty  is  not  dressed  as  fashionably  as  other 
girls  ?  Somebody  must  be  at  fault,  and  every  one  knows  it  is 
not  you." 

Now  Mrs.  Bates  had  thought  many  a  time,  and  said  it,  too, 
that  Sally  Walden  was  more  to  blame  than  her  husband — that 
she  seemed  to  have  no  ambition  and  no  pride  since  her  marriage, 
but  suffered  all  things  to  go  at  loose  ends.  But  now  that  she 
sat  beside  her,  and  saw  her  thin  cheek  and  old  faded  dress,  aud 
saw,  too,  the  bundle  of  coarse  patched  shirts  she  was  mending, 
her  heart  was  softened  towards  her  and  hardened  proportionably 


MBS.   WALDEN'S    CONFIDANT.  299 

against  her  husband,  and  for  the  sake  of  being  agreeable,  and 
as  is  human  nature,  under  the  circumstances,  she  could  not 
forbear  speaking  more  than  she  really  thought,  or  more  than  at 
another  time  she  would  have  thought.  She  even  proposed,  in 
the  heat  of  her  zeal  for  her  friend,  "  to  give  Timothy  a  talking 
to." 

Many  things  about  her  own  private  affairs  she  put  into  the 
keeping  of  her  friend,  Sally  Walden,  such  as  that  Peter  Bates 
did  not  always  give  her  money  for  the  asking — that  herself  did 
a  good  deal  of  the  managing  that  he  had  credit  for,  and  that  her 
daughter  Kate  would  not  now  be,  as  she  was,  one  of  the  very 
leaders  of  society,  but  for  her  special  exertion.  And  here  she 
whispered  very  confidentially  that  Dr.  Meredith  had  been  two 
or  three  times  to  see  Kate,  and  that  she  had  reason  to  believe 
it  would  be  a  match.  When  Mrs.  Walden  arose  to  make  some 
preparation  about  dinner,  "  Don't,  dear  Sally,"  said  the  con- 
fidant, "  I  can  eat  anything  that  you  can,  so  don't  give  yourself 
any  trouble." 

"  I  could  not  give  you  anything  if  I  were  disposed,"  answered 
Mrs.  Walden  ;  "  there  is  nothing  but  ham  and  potatoes  about 
the  house." 

"  No  matter,  I  had  rather  talk  than  eat,"  replied  the  confidant; 
and  to  ham  and  potatoes  the  neighbors  sat  down.  Matty  came 
from  her  spinning,  and  the  boys  from  the  field,  but  Mr.  Walden 
did  not  come  in  to  eat,  he  could  not  take  time,  as  he  was  work- 
ing hard  to  get  some  grain  in  the  barn  before  it  should  rain. 
The  neighbors  had  not  noticed  till  then  how  cloudy  it  was,  and 
Mrs.  Bates  cut  her  visit  short  as  soon  as  the  meal  was  con- 
cluded, assuring  Sally,  by  way  of  parting  consolation,  that  she 
would  come  again  soon,  and  that  she  would  not  fail  to  give 


300  MKS.   WALDEX'S    CONFIDANT. 

Timothy  "  a  piece  of  her  mind."  Tears  came  to  the  eyes  of 
Mrs.  Waldeu,  for  vexation  with  herself  was  struggling  with 
gratitude  to  her  confidant,  and  the  annoyance  was  not  lessened, 
when  Mrs.  Bates  said,  pointing  to  the  worn-out  shirts,  "  I'll 
declare,  I  would  not  try  to  mend  such  things,  you  lose  more 
time  than  you  gain,  and  if  Timothy  Walden  would  not  buy 
better  shirts,  he  might  go  without  any  for  all  of  me." 

Mrs.  Walden  did  not  say,  "  Timothy  has  a  dozen  better 
shirts,"  but  she  thought  it,  for  her  heart  was  beginning  to  turn 
to  its  true  allegiance.  And  the  two  boys  returned  back  to  the 
field,  and  Matty  to  her  spinning  work,  and  Mrs.  Walden  put 
away  the  dinner  things  with  a  heavy  heart,  and  sat  down  alone, 
trying  in  vain  to  reconcile  herself  to  herself — she  could  not  do 
that,  nor  see  a  clear  way  before  her  ;  a  feeling  of  bitterness 
and  blindness,  of  inability  and  impossibility,  kept  her  hands 
idle  and  drew  her  face  into  a  frown.  She  did  not  see  as  she 
could  do  anything,  and  she  did  not  know  as  she  would  if  she 
could. 

As  she  sat  so,  she  failed  to  see  or  hear  the  flies  that  came 
humming  thick  and  black  along  the  ceiling,  and  the  shadows 
that  deepened  and  deepened  where  the  sunshine  had  been ;  she 
did  not  see  the  leaves  turning  their  grey  linings  out,  nor  the 
clouds  of  dust  that  blew  up  along  the  road  ;  the  tempest  in  her 
heart  did  not  allow  her  to  see  the  one  along  the  sky.  Suddenly 
a  bright  flash  opened,  and  at  the  same  time  blinded  her  eyes, 
and  the  crash  that  came  after  it  deafened  her  ears,  and  at  the 
same  moment  made  them  sensible  of  voices,  reproachful  voices, 
that  she  had  never  heard  so  distinctly  before.  Quick  she  harried 
to  the  door,  and  strained  her  eyes  towards  the  meadow,  that  was 
divided  from  her  now  by  the  blackness  of  the  storm  ;  a  strong 


MBS.    WALDEX'S    CONTIDANT.  301 

wind  was  bending  the  tops  of  the  trees — she  could  hear 
branches  breaking,  and  the  frightened  cattle  lowing  as  they  ran 
hither  and  thither  ;  the  rain  dashed  heavily  on  roof  and  grass 
and  dry  dust ;  and  the  eave-ducts  ran  over,  and  the  wind  as  it 
came,  bent  in  the  very  walls  of  the  house.  Matty  left  her  spin- 
ning and  clung  to  her  mother  as  the  lightning  flashed  again 
and  again,  and  the  thunder  rolled  as  though  breaking  its  wuy 
along  the  heavens.  Awe-struck  and  trembling  stood  the 
mother,  her  eyes  still  bent  on  the  meadow. 

"  Oh,  they  are  coming,"  cried  Matty,  "  I  am  so  glad  ;"  but 
scarcely  had  she  spoken  the  words  when  it  was  discovered  that 
the  children  came  alone  ;  to  the  frantic  inquiries,  for  they  came 
crying  as  they  ran,  they  replied  that  a  tree  under  which  they 
had  taken  shelter  was  struck,  and  that  their  father  was  killed. 

"  Heaven  have  mercy  on  us !"  cried  Mrs.  Walden,  her  face 
growing  white,  and  her  limbs  sinking  beneath  her,  and  her 
daughter  and  sons  answered  by  sobs  and  cries. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  my  good  friends  ?"  said  a  voice,  kindly 
and  earnestly,  and  a  young  man,  that  Matilda  recognized  as 
Dr.  Meredith,  stood  in  their  midst.  The  awful  calamity  was 
explained,  and  the  young  man  hastened  to  call  the  assistance 
of  another  neighbor,  who  was  returning  like  himself  from  the 
celebration,  and  with  a  brief  word  of  comfort  and  hope  hurried 
to  the  field,  accompanied  by  the  oldest  son. 

Ages  seemed  to  pass  in  the  minutes  till  their  return,  and 
when  they  came,  the  pain  and  weight  of  ages  seemed  to  crush 
down  the  hearts  of  the  mother  and  her  children. 

Dead — they  were  bearing  him  home  dead  ! 

"  Let  me  die,  too,"  exclaimed  the  almost  distracted  wife, 
throwing  herself  on  his  bosom;  but  when  the  doctor  said  there 


302  MRS.   WALDKN'8    CONFIDANT. 

was  yet  hope — he  might  be  only  stunned  and  senseless — the 
struggle  between  hope  and  despair  became  almost  frenzy  ! 
never  till  now  had  she  known  how  good  Timothy  was,  and  how 
much  she  loved  him.  With  almost  superhuman  faith  and 
energy  the  young  doctor  strove  to  subdue  the  last  enemy,  for 
he  was  not  yet  quite  triumphant.  "  Oh  !  if  he  were  only  well — 
if  he  could  only  speak  to  me  once  more,  and  say  I  was  forgiven," 
cried  the  poor  wife,  as  she  rocked  herself  to  and  fro  and  moaned 
for  her  own  wicked  accusations,  as  she  now  thought  them, 
almost  as  much  as  for  the  lost ;  for  there  is  no  thought  so  bit- 
ter as  the  memory  of  a  wrong  to  the  dead.  In  her  heart  she 
accused  herself  of  being  his  murderer ;  it  was  as  if  heaven  had 
taken  him  away  to  show  her  how  good  he  was.  One  who  went 
to  see  how  the  tree  was  divided  by  the  lightning,  returned 
carrying  a  pitcher  of  blackberries,  seeing  which  the  youngest 
boy  began  to  cry  all  the  more  ;  "  he  was  picking  them  for  you, 
mother,"  he  said,  "  it  was  the  last  thing  he  did."  Mrs.  Walden 
could  not  speak  ;  everything  seemed  to  show  her  that  herself 
was  more  and  more  to  blame.  Suddenly  there  was  a  cry  of 
joy — the  dead  man  was  alive  !  No  enemy,  even  death  itself, 
it  seemed,  could  stand  before  the  love  that  fought  him  back. 
Words  would  fail  to  describe  the  joy  of  that  household  when 
the  husband  and  father  was  able  to  sit  up  and  speak. 

The  storm  swept  by — the  breeze  came  fresh  and  cool  from 
the  meadow — the  clouds  broke  to  pieces  and  scattered  from 
the  heavens,  and  the  sun  came  out  broad  and  bright  for  the 
setting.  Dr.  Meredith's  reputation  was  established,  for  all  the 
people  said  "  If  he  can  bring  Timothy  Walden  to  life,  what  is 
there  he  can't  do  ?"  and  so  came  one  and  another  for  his  medi- 
cal advice  and  assistance.  Perhaps,  the  faith  of  his  patients 


MES.  WALDEN'S  CONFIDANT.  303 

had  something  to  do  with  it,  but  certain  it  is  that  great  success 
attended  him. 

As  may  be  supposed,  Mrs.  Walden  found  it  the  easiest  and 
most  natural  thing  in  the  world  to  say,  "  Dr.  Meredith" — in- 
deed, she  quite  forgot  whether  the  coat  he  used  to  wear  was 
black  or  brown,  and  as  for  the  two  shirts,  she  would  not  be 
positive  but  that  he  had  had  three  ;  and  she  was  quite  sure  she 
had  seen  him  at  work  in  his  mother's  garden  a  thousand  times 
when  other  boys  were  playing.  There  was  new  light  come 
into  her  world,  and  as  the  work  and  bustle  of  her  life  stood 
still  while  she  waited  at  Timothy's  sick  bed,  she  found  time 
to  see  how  many  blessings  she  had,  and  how  many  she  had 
neglected. 

She  made  no  complaint  of  the  time  she  was  losing — on  the 
contrary,  she  had  never  talked  so  cheerfully  and  hopefully  in 
her  life,  and  it  was  perhaps  as  much  owing  to  her  good  nurs- 
ing, as  to  Dr.  Meredith,  that  Timothy  was  so  soon  able  to  be 
about  his  work  again. 

"  Now  be  careful,  Timothy,  and  don't  try  to  do  much,"  said 
Mrs.  Walden,  as  after  a  fortnight's  illness  he  went  forth  from 
the  house.  He  looked  up  in  astonishment — came  back  a  step 
or  two — asked  her  what  she  said — perhaps  for  the  pleasure  of 
hearing  it  over,  and  when  in  substance  it  was  repeated,  he  said 
he  felt  stronger  and  could  walk  better  than  he  supposed  he 
could.  So  grateful  and  so  loving  was  the  look  he  bestowed  on 
her  that  Sally  could  not  help  saying,  "  Eliza  Bates  give  him  a 
piece  of  her  mind,  indeed — she  had  better  attend  her  own 
affairs,  and  I  will  tell  her  so  if  she  conies  here  meddling." 
And  as  she  went  from  room  to  room  to  see  what  could  be  done 
with  their  contents,  she  kept  communing  with  herself  something 


304  MKS.  WARDEN'S  CONTIDANT. 

in  this  wise.  Here  are  rags  enough  to  make  a  carpet,  if  they 
were  sewed,  and  here  are  heaps  and  heaps  of  bed  clothing — 
enough  to  last  all  my  life,  and  Matty,  poor  girl,  has  been  spin- 
ning all  the  summer  to  make  more.  I'll  take  the  yarn  I  pro- 
posed to  have  made  into  coverlids,  and  have  it  colored  and 
woven  into  carpets — I  will  see  if  I  can't  have  carpets  as  well  as 
Eliza  Bates,  and  though  we  have  not  money  to  buy  new  furni- 
ture just  now,  we  can  make  what  we  have  appear  better.  So 
she  worked  on  and  on,  and  at  the  bottom  of  all  her  work  was 
the  thought  that  she  would  show  Mrs.  Bates  that  she  had  the 
best  husband  in  the  world. 

Matty  clapped  her  hands  in  glee  when  her  mother  told  her 
she  had  concluded  to  make  carpets  and  not  coverlids  of  the  wool 
she  was  spinning.  "  Oh,  it  will  look  so  much  better,"  she  said, 
"  when  anybody  comes,"  but  she  thought  when  Dr.  Meredith 
comes.  It  was  easy  work  spinning  after  that,  and  very  soon 
the  wool  was  made  into  yarn,  and  sent  away  to  be  colored  and 
woven.  Then  the  rags  which  had  cumbered  the  house  so  long 
were  cut  and  sewed  and  sent  to  the  weaver's.  Barrels  and 
boxes  were  removed  to  the  barn,  and  some  curtains  for  the  win- 
dows were  made  of  chintz,  and  Matty  and  her  mother  thought 
they  would  look  almost  as  well  as  bought  curtains,  when  they 
were  washed  and  ironed  smoothly.  At  any  rate,  they  were 
better  than  Mrs.  Bates' — both  were  sure  of  that.  And  all  the 
while  the  work  was  going  forward,  there  was  cheerfulness  in 
the  house  that  had  never  been  there  before. 

They  had  so  much  more  time  than  formerly,  they  could  not 
understand  how  it  was,  for  though  they  were  getting  so  much 
done  they  were  not  all  the  time  working — for  now  and  then  they 
stopped  to  plan  and  sometimes  to  udmire  what  was  completed, 


MKS.  WARDEN'S  CONFIDAXT.  305 

and  yet  they  had  never  accomplished  so  much  when  they  had 
not  taken  time  to  speak  in  all  the  day.  "  If  Mrs.  Bates  can 
make  dresses  for  Kate  oat  of  hers,  perhaps  I  can  make  some 
for  you  out  of  mine,"  said  Mrs.  Walden  to  Matty,  one  day, 
"there  is  my  wedding  dress,  and  my  old  black  silk  and  my 
white  dress,  and  one  or  two  ginghams  and  calicoes,  I  believe, 
in  the  old  chest  up  stairs,  and  I  shall  never  wear  them  again." 
The  chest  was  accordingly  opened  and  the  dresses  examined — 
the  white  one  was  bleached,  and  with  the  addition  of  a  yard  or 
two  of  new  cloth  made  Matty  the  prettiest  dress  she  had  ever 
worn — the  silk,  which  had  been  an  ample  pattern  in  its  time, 
proved  all  sufficient ;  the  calicoes  were  made  to  assume  new 
fashions,  and  Matty  was  dressed  like  other  girls. 

"  There,  Sally,  you  have  been  doing  so  much  lately  you  de- 
serve some  pay  for  it,"  said  Timothy,  as  he  threw  a  neat  parcel 
into  the  lap  of  his  wife  one  evening.  It  was  a  new  dress,  the 
first  one  she  had  had  for  a  long  time,  and  when  she  laid  it  in 
the  closet  she  stopped  to  wipe  her  eyes,  and  having  done  so, 
she  removed  the  old  coarse  shirts — they  were  just  fit  to  wash 
windows  with,  she  said,  and  she  guessed  her  husband  could 
afford  to  wear  as  good  a  shirt  as  Mr.  Bates. 

"  No,  Sally,"  said  Mr.  Walden,  "  I  must  wear  the  old  ones  a 
little  while  longer  till  we  get  the  doctor's  bill  paid."  And  he 
untied  his  purse  and  began  counting  the  money  he  had  already 
saved  for  the  purpose  mentioned. 

"If  it  were  not  for  that  debt,"  said  Matty,  archly,  "  we 
might  have  got  the  house  plastered,  might  we  not,  father  ?" 
She  blushed  and  lowered  her  voice,  for  the  doctor  was  already 
at  the  door. 

"  We  were  just  talking  of  you,"  said  Mr.  Walden,  "  and 


306  MKS.    WALDEN'S    COXFIDANX, 

perhaps  I  may  as  well  ask  now  as  any  time  what  am  I  to  give 
you  for  your  services  to  me  ?" 

"  Not  a  cent,"  said  Dr.  Meredith,  "  my  little  service  was 
nothing  compared  to  the  great  service  you  have  done  me,  for 
it  was  through  you  that  I  obtained  the  confidence  of  all  the 
village  people." 

"  What  a  nice  man  he  is,"  whispered  Mrs.  Walden  to  her 
husband,  when  the  young  people  had  walked  apart ;  and  she 
added,  "if  he  is  in  love  with  Katy  Bates  I  don't  see  what  he 
comes  here  for." 

Mr.  Walden  smiled,  and  said  he  would  see  about  the  plaster- 
ing the  next  day. 

"  Now,  boys,"  he  continued,  "  if  you  are  a  mind  to  help,  I'll 
pay  you  the  same  that  I  do  my  other  hands."  Of  course  they 
were  delighted,  and  whe-n  the  house  was  plastered,  half  the 
money  had  still  been  saved,  for  to  give  it  to  the  children  seem- 
ed the  same  thing. 

"  Is  it  not  beautiful  1"  exclaimed  Matty,  when  the  walls  were 
finished  and  the  curtains  hung  up  and  the  carpets  laid  down — 
"  why  I  never  saw  such  a  change  with  so  little  money." 

"  I  wonder  if  Mrs.  Bates'  house  looks  any  better  ?"  replied 
Mrs.  Walden,  as  she  walked  from  one  room  to  the  other,  not 
knowing  which  to  admire  most. 

"  Mother  and  Matty  have  made  the  house  so  nice,"  said  the 
boys,  "  we  must  see  if  we  can't  improve  the  yard  a  little."  So 
they  trimmed  up  the  rose-bushes  and  swept  off  the  grass  and 
white-washed  the  fence,  and  the  more  they  did  the  more  they 
found  they  were  capable  of  doing,  and  that  a  little  will  was 
better  than  a  good  deal  of  money. .  They  even  began  to  believe 
they  could,  the  next  year,  make  as  good  a  garden  as  anybody. 


MRS.  WALDEN'S  CONFIDANT.  307 

"  To  be  sure  you  can,"  said  their  mother  ;  "  but,  somehow  or 
other  we  get  along  with  the  table  much  better  than  we  used 
to" 

But  the  "  somehow  or  other  "  was  that  she  herself  made  the 
most  of  what  she  had ;  and  when  she  had  flour  and  lard,  and 
sugar  and  fruit,  it  was  easy  to  make  short-cakes  and  pies.  She 
had,  too,  butter  and  milk,  and  eggs — not  so  many  as  she  would 
like — another  year  she  must  try  to  raise  more  poultry — she  did 
not  complain,  however — the  potatoes  were  excellent — the  apples 
had  never  been  finer,  and  she  could  exchange  her  extra  butter 
for  such  articles  at  the  grocery  as  they  had  not  at  home  ;  and 
she  always  finished  her  congratulations  by  saying,  while  they 
were  all  alive  and  well  they  must  not  complain,  for  she  never 
forgot  the  terrible  day  that  Timothy  was  brought  home  dead. 
Neither  could  she  quite  forgive  Mrs.  Bates,  she  often  said  she 
was  sure  she  wished  her  well,  and  that  she  would  not  lay  a 
straw  in  her  way.  Three  months  were  gone  since  Mrs.  Bates 
had  made  the  proposal  of  giving  Timothy  a  piece  of  her  mind, 
and  still  that  malicious  work  had  not  been  performed. 

"  Suppose  we  give  her  an  opportunity  by  inviting  her  here  to 
supper,"  said  Mr.  Walden. 

Matty  warmly  seconded  the  plan,  and  a  day  was  at  once 
fixed.  Such  a  busy  time  there  had  never"  been  seen  at  Mrs. 
Walden's  as  the  supper  induced.  The  house  was  set  in  com- 
plete order — the  nicest  coverlids  were  spread  on  the  beds,  and 
the  frilled  pillow-cases  brought  from  the  closets — a  half  dozen 
new  chairs  were  bought — the  silver  was  polished,  and  the 
china  set  in  the  nicest  order.  Mr.  Walden  was  to  wear  his  new 
clothes,  and  Mrs.  Walden  the  new  dress  ;  the  boys  were  to 
make  special  preparation,  and  Matty  was  to  wear  her  white  dress. 


308  MKS.  WALDEN'S  CONFIDANT. 

Cakes  were  made,  and  custards,  and  a  variety  of  delicacies 
I  need  not  enumerate  prepared  for  Katy  Bates  and  her  mother, 
in  the  most  excellent  style  ;  and  as  a  crowning  triumph,  Dr. 
Meredith  was  invited. 

"  It  is  all  admirable,"  he  said,  when  he  was  told  why  the 
supper  was  made,  for  since  the  Fourth  of  July  he  had  been 
very  intimate  at  Mrs.  Walden's,  "  but  I  have  an  amendment  to 
suggest,  which  is,  that  my  mother  and  the  parson  shall  be  in- 
vited." 

I  need  scarcely  say  that  Mrs.  Bates,  notwithstanding  the 
charming  occasion  offered  her,  never  gave  Timothy  a  piece  of 
her  mind.  Training  day  saw  the  completion  of  the  third  story 
of  the  North  American  Hotel,  and  brighter  even  than  the  new 
sign,  shone,  upon  that  occasion,  the  faces  of  Dr.  Meredith  and 
his  bride. 


THE    COUNTRY    COUSIN. 


"  OH,  mother,  mother  !  father  has  sold  old  Brindle  and  her 
calf,  don't  you  think  ! — sold  her  for  twenty-five  dollars — a  good 
deal  of  money,  ain't  it  ?  There  she  goes,  now  ;  just  look  up 
the  lane  and  see  her  ;  how  she  shakes  her  head  and  bawls. 
She  don't  wish  to  go,  but  her  calf  runs  like  everything — it 
don't  care — look  quick,  Hannah  ;  look  Nancy,  or  you  won't 
see  her,  she  is  just  going  out  of  sight,  now  ;"  and  little 
Willie  Davidson  ran  out  of  the  house  as  he  finished  telling  the 
news,  and  climbed  to  the  top  of  the  gatepost  for  a  last  glimpse 
of  old  Brindle.  Nancy  ran  to  the  gate  too,  asking  Willie  if 
he  was  quite  sure  of  what  he  said,  straining  her  eyes  to  catch 
one  more  look  of  the  cow  she  had  milked  so  often,  and  that 
seemed  to  her  almost  like  a  friend.  She  did  not  return  to  the 
house  at  once,  but  fell  to  digging  about  some  pink  roots — per- 
haps to  divert  her  thoughts. 

Mrs.  Davidson  stitched  faster  on  the  work  she  was  sewing, 
and  the  moisture  gathered  in  her  soft  blue  eyes  as  she  did  so, 
for  she  was  a  kind-hearted  woman,  and  could  not  have  even  a 
dumb  creature  about  her  that  she  did  not  love. 

"Oh,  mother!"  shouted  Willie,  "all  the  cows  have  seen 

809 


310  THE   COUNTRY   COUSIN. 

that  Brindle  is  going,  and  they  are  scampering  across  the  field 
towards  her,  as  fast  as  they  can  ;  Spot  is  tearing  up  the  ground 
with  all  her  might.  Do  you  suppose  cows  can  feel  bad,  mother  ? 
If  they  can't,  what  makes  them  act  so  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,  my  child,  never  mind,"  replied  the 
mother,  her  voice  choked  and  her  eyes  running  over  by  this 
time.  Hannah  called  Willie  iu  presently,  and  asked  him  if  he 
was  sure  Brindle  was  sold,  and  if  he  really  knew  what  money 
she  had  brought ;  and  when  he  said  that  he  saw  the  man 
count  twenty-five  dollars  into  father's  hand,  she  smiled  and 
burst  into  a  merry  song,  as  she  skipped  about  the  work, 
for  the  sun  was  going  down,  and  it  was  time  for  the  evening 
chores. 

Nancy  remained  digging  about  the  pink  roots,  and  thinking 
of  Brindle  a  long  time,  and  of  the  pretty  little  calf  whose 
silken  ears  she  had  held  so  softly  in  her  hands,  only  that  morn- 
ing. The  last  sunshine  faded  from  the  brown  gable  of  the  old 
homestead — the  chickens  began  to  gather  in  quiet  groups  and 
talk  soberly  of  bedtime  ;  the  turkeys  to  gobble  their  last 
news  ;  and  the  geese  to  waddle  slowly  homeward,  when  she 
looked  down  the  lane  the  way  Brindle  was  gone,  knowing  she 
would  not  see  her,  but  feeling  impelled  to  look  she  knew  not 
why.  The  dust  was  all  settled  on  the  path  she  had  gone,  and 
quiet  stretched  the  long  road  as  far  as  she  could  see — quiet, 
but  not  all  deserted  ;  slowly  and  wearily  as  it  seemed,  she  saw 
coming  in  the  distance  a  foot  traveller,  his  coat  swung  over 
one  arm,  and  a  bundle  on  his  shoulder.  How  often  we  look 
at  our  future  fate,  and  suspect  it  not.  Certainly  Nancy 
dreamed  not  that  poor  traveller  was  anything  to  her. 

Tired,  very  tired,  from  his  work  in   the   field,   and   slow, 


THE   COUNTRY   COUSIN.  311 

behind  the  plough  which  he  held  sideways,  for  he  did  not  care  to 
turn  a  furrow  now,  came  Mr.  Davidson — the  chains  of  thehar* 
ness  dragged  heavily  and  rattled  noisily  as  he  came  ;  and  the 
old  work-horses  walked  soberly  enough,  for  they  were  tired 
too.  Perhaps  the  smoke  going  up  from  the  homestead  chim- 
ney looked  pleasant  to  the  young  man,  and  doubtless  the  smile 
and  salutation  of  the  farmer  were  kindly  as  he  overtook  him 
and  slackened  his  pace,  to  make  some  inquiry  about  the  near- 
est inn,  and  the  prospects  of  obtaining  employment  thereabouts. 

"  What  work  can  you  do  ?"  asked  Mr.  Davidson,  letting  the 
plough  fall  to  the  ground  as  he  spoke. 

The  young  man  raised  it  up  and  held  it  steadily  aslant  as  he 
replied  that  he  had  been  used  to  farm-work  and  could  do  any- 
thing that  a  farmer  would  be  likely  to  require. 

"  Come  in,"  said  Mr.  Davidson,  "  and  we  will  talk  further 
about  the  matter." 

Nancy  had  seen  him  holding  the  plough  for  her  father  as  they 
came  along,  and  she  waited  and  gave  him  a  sweet  smile  as  he 
entered  the  gate — a  smile  that  brought  a  deeper  color  to  his 
cheek  than  had  ever  been  there  before,  for  the  youth  was  a 
poor,  hard-working  youth,  and  not  much  used  to  woman's 
smiles.  Hannah  gave  him  a  careless  nod,  but  did  not  break 
off  her  song  for  his  coming.  She  did  not  see  the  heightened 
color  of  his  cheek,  nor  the  tenderness  in  his  blue  eyes.  When 
it  was  milking  time,  Timothy  Linley,  for  that  was  the  young 
man's  name,  offered  to  do  the  milking. 

"  I  will  assist  him,"  said  Nancy,  for  she  and  Hannah  were 
used  to  doing  all  ;  but  Hannah  made  no  such  offer  ;  on  tho 
contrary,  she  remained  in  the  house  teasing  her  mother  for  a 
new  gown  and  bonnet. 


312  THE   COUNTRY    COUSIN. 

When  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Davidson  sat  on  the  cool  stones  at  the 
door,  in  the  deep  shadow  of  the  twilight,  she  told  him  how 
good  the  girls  had  been — how  they  had  stayed  at  home  all  sum- 
mer, and  spun  and  milked  and  churned  and  now  it  was  coming 
fall,  and  they  deserved  a  little  leisure  and  reward — in  short, 
she  wanted  them  to  have  some  money,  what  he  could  spare, 
and  spend  a  week  in  town  with  their  aunt  Martha.  Just  as  a 
good  husband  and  father  would  have  done,  Mr.  Davidson 
counted  into  his  wife's  hand  half  the  price  of  the  cow,  saying — 

"  Will  that  do  ?" 

"  We  must  not  both  leave  mother  for  a  week,"  said  Nancy  ; 
"  you  may  go,  Hannah,  in  my  place,  I  shall  be  quite  well  satis- 
fied with  what  you  buy  for  me  ;  and  as  for  visiting  Aunt  Mar- 
tha, I  will  do  that  some  other  time." 

Never  once  said  Hannah,  "  we  will  both  go  and  stay  three 
days — that  will  make  a  nice  little  visit,  and  you  must  choose 
your  new  dress  yourself." 

Timothy  said  Nancy  must  go — he  would  help  her  mother 
all  he  could — he  would  churn  and  draw  all  the  water,  and  make 
the  fires,  and  do  many  other  chores  ;  but  Nancy  made  excuses, 
for  she  felt  how  ill  she  could  be  spared,  and  Hannah  went 
alone. 

When  the  market-day  came  round,  and  Mr.  Davidson  went 
to  town  with  the  expectation  of  bringing  home  Hannah,  with 
all  the  new  things,  mother  and  daughter  were  very  busy — bak- 
ing in  the  brick  oven  was  done,  and  the  house  all  set  in  order 
as  for  a  stranger  guest ;  it  was  quite  an  event  for  Hannah  to 
come  from  town  with  so  much  to  tell  and  so  many  new  things. 
Towards  nightfall,  when  all  eyes  were  straining  down  the  road  to 
catch  the  first  glimpse,  the  white  faces  of  the  horses  were  seen. 


THE    COUNTRY    COUSIN.  313 

"  There  they  come ! "  shouted  Willie  from  the  gate-post. 
Nancy  raised  herself  on  tiptoe,  while  the  good  mother  hastened 
to  lay  the  cloth — but  no,  only  the  father  was  there.  Great 
anxiety  prevailed,  and  the  wagon  seemed  to  be  an  hour  coming 
through  the  hollow  and  over  the  hill.  Nancy  ran  to  the  gate 
to  learn  what  was  the  matter. 

"  Nothing,  Nancy,  nothing,"  said  the  old  man,  smiling ;  but 
it  was  a  very  sad  smile,  and  he  added,  "  Hannah  has  found 
better  friends  than  any  of  us,  that  is  all." 

Seeing  how  s;id  Nancy  looked,  Timothy  managed  to  milk  all 
the  cows  except  one — it  was  not  hard  work  at  all,  he  said,  he 
always  liked  to  milk ;  and  when  the  last  chores  were  done,  it 
was  not  yet  dark,  and  one  of  the  mildest  and  sweetest  of  the 
October  days — so  mild  and  so  sweet,  that  Timothy  ventured  to 
say,  blushing  bashfully,  and  looking  down,  that  a  walk  in  the 
orchard  would  be  pleasant.  So  taking  a  basket  as  an  excuse, 
Timothy  and  Nancy  went  to  the  orchard  together.  The  knolls, 
cu-hioned  softly  with  grass,  beneath  the  trees,  invited  to  repose, 
and  the  heavy  and  curtaining  silence  to  confidence.  Every 
heart  knows  its  own  sorrows,  and  every  heart  desires  that  some 
other  heart  shall  know  them,  and  as  naturally  as  the  leaves  fell 
in  their  lap,  fell  their  words  of  gentle  complaint  and  appeal  for 
sympathy — not  in  vain. 

A  few  days  after  this,  Hannah  came  home,  riding  in  a  fine 
carriage,  and  with  a  fine  gentleman  beside  her.  She  was  a 
girl  of  fresh  impulsive  feelings,  of  a  showy  style,  and  easily 
charmed  by  flattery.  And  she  had  given  and  received  admira- 
tion, if  not  affection. 

In  her  new  bonnet,  with  its  gay  ribbons,  and  new  dress,  ruffled 
and  flounced,  the  plainer  mother  and  sister  hardly  knew  Hannah. 

14 


314  THE    COUNTRY    COUSIN. 

I  am  sorry  lo  say,  that  the  disposition  she  had  made  of  the 
money  was  not  a  little  selfish — Nancy's  dress  and  bonnet  were 
not  only  less  gay,  but  evidently  a  good  deal  less  expensive 
than  her  own. 

"When  the  apples  hung  their  red  cheeks  down  another  year, 
and  the  mists  were  like  dim  shadows  along  the  yellow  leaves  of 
the  woods,  the  old  homestead  had  a  quieter  and  soberer  look — 
Nancy  and  Hannah  were  married.  Timothy,  a  slender  and 
delicate  youth,  was  the  husband  of  one,  and  a  healthy,  hale 
man,  who  counted  his  money  by  thousands — the  same  who 
brought  Hannah  home  in  the  fine  carriage — was  her  husband 
now.  She  was  gone  to  live  in  a  great  city,  to  be  surrounded  by 
fashion  and  friends,  and  wear  fine  morning  dresses  and  even- 
ing dresses,  and  forget  her  playmate  and  workmate,  poor 
Nancy. 

November  midnight  lay  black  over  the  town,  and  black  over 
the  country ;  spires  gleamed  faintly  through  the  rain ;  roofs 
stretched  wide  and  wet  over  the  sleeping  and  waking  multitude, 
and  the  street  lamps,  burning  dimly,  lighted  only  now  and  then 
some  home-going  coach  or  solitary  wanderer.  The  lamps  in 
the  halls  and  at  the  doors  of  the  great  houses  had  been  put 
out,  and  only  here  and  there,  through  windows  closed  against 
the  rain,  shone  a  little  light,  Some  exceptions  there  were,  it  is 
true ;  mirth  will  not  always  let  the  November  rain  put  out  its 
fires,  and  melancholy  will  have  its  lights  and  watchers,  too — 
life  will  come  to  life  in  its  time,  and  death  will  claim  its  own  at 
midnight  as  well  as  at  noon.  So,  here  and  there,  in  the  rainy- 
darkness,  stood  some,  lighted  from  basement  to  chamber, 
but  only  with  one  have  we  to  do.  The  lamps  at  the  door 
blaze  over  the  broad  steps,  and  the  glittering  chandelier  in  the 


THE    COUNTRY    COUSIN.  315 

hall  shines  up  the  broad  and  elegantly-furnished  staircase. 
Coaches  wait  at  the  door,  and  the  silver  mounting  of  the  har- 
ness is  gemmed  with  rain — there  is  no  noise  of  music  or  dancing 
within ;  and  yet,  from  the  quick-moving  steps  and  variously 
flashing  lights,  the  occasion  seems  to  be  mirthful.  Let  us  go  in 
and  see.  In  the  drawing-room  the  lights  are  not  brilliant,  but 
the  table  in  the  refectory  is  spread  as  for  a  holiday,  and  we 
hear  voices,  suppressed,  but  joyful.  Ah,  here  in  the  softened 
light  of  these  rich  and  carefully  drawn  curtains,  we  learn  the 
secret — a  child  is  born  to  wealth  and  honor,  and  friends  are 
come  through  the  November  rain  to  rejoice  with  the  mother, 
and  to  kiss  the  bright-eyed  little  one,  who  as  yet  knows  nothing 
of  the  quality  of  the  new  world  into  which  it  has  come. 

We  will  leave  them  now,  for  their  lives  have  been  "  a  cake 
unturned,"  and  have  hardened  in  the  perpetual  sunshine  of 
prosperity. 

The  rainy  clouds  of  that  midnight  stretched  far  beyond  the 
roofs  of  the  city,  over  cultivated  fields  and  dreary  reaches  of 
woods ;  over  warm  sheltered  homesteads ;  great  farms,  where 
the  housed  cattle  listened  to  the  rain  on  the  roof;  along  the 
grass-grown  and  obscure  road,  where  the  mover  had  drawn  up 
his  wagon  beneath  the  sheltering  beech-tree,  and  wakeful, 
watched  his  log-fire  struggling  with  the  storm ;  and  over  the 
settler's  cabin  and  clearing — and  this  last  chiefly  interests  us 
now.  Scarcely  at  all  shines  the  light  from  the  small  window 
against  the  great  background  of  wet,  black  woods ;  and  the 
rain  soaks  noiselessly  in  the  mellow  ground  of  the  small  patch 
of  clearing  where  the  house  stands — if  house,  so  small  and  rude 
a  habitation  may  be  called.  But  its  heavy  beating  is  heard 
distinctly  by  the  anxious  watchers  by  the  bedside — for  between 


316  THE    COUNTRY    COUSIN. 

them  and  the  clapboards  of  the  roof  there  is  no  floor  nor  ceil- 
ing. In  the  rough  stone  fireplace  some  oak  wood  is  burning, 
and  two  tallow  candles  on  the  mantel-shelf  make  the  light, 
which  is  shaded  from  the  bed  by  a  temporary  screen.  No 
splendid  draperies  soften  the  light  to  the  eyes,  that  for  the  first 
time  have  opened  upon  the  pain  and  sorrow  of  the  world.  The 
country  doctor  sits  dreamily  by  the  fire,  hearing  imperfectly 
the  neighing  of  his  rain-beaten  horse  at  the  door ;  the  mur- 
mured voices  of  the  women,  and  the  moans  of  the  mother,  who 
has  come  to  a  deeper  than  midnight  darkness,  and  must  enter 
it  alone. 

The  crying  of  the  little  daughter  beside  her  makes  to  her  un- 
derstanding no  woeful  picture  of  orphan  struggles  and  sorrows 
— she  hears  it  not ;  let  us  hope  she  hears  the  welcoming  songs 
of  the  angels. 

Gloomily  and  wet  came  the  day,  and  the  kind-hearted  women 
trod  softly  about  the  bed — not  that  there  was  any  fear  of 
waking  the  sleeper — if  the  crying  of  her  baby  disturbed  her 
not,  how  should  the  treading  of  their  footsteps  ?  Yet  her  smile 
was  so  like  life,  they  could  not  but  tread  softly  as  they  came 
near  her — the  hair  was  so  bright  and  sunny,  you  could  not 
believe  the  cheek  beneath  it  was  so  hard  and  cold — the  feet 
had  been  so  quick  to  do  good,  it  was  hard  to  believe  they  were 
straightened  for  the  last  time;  the  eyes  had  but  yesterday 
shone  with  such  tenderness  and  love  for  every  living  thing — 
how,  oh,  how  could  they  be  darkened  forever?  So  the  women 
trod  softly  and  folded  the  sheet  softly  down  about  the  bosom 
that,  beyond  all  other  chilling,  Death  had  chilled. 

The  brightest  of  the  sun's  light  stayed  behind  the  clouds,  and 
the  rain  fell  and  fell — most  dismally  over  the  two  men  who  had 


THE    COUNTRY   COUSIN.  317 

left  all  more  cheerful  work  for  the  digging  of  a  grave — the  red 
brier-leaves  clung  about  the  mound,  by  the  side  of  which  they 
were  digging — it  had  not  been  there  long,  for  no  grass  was 
grown  on  it  as  yet,  and  not  a  bit  of  moss  dimmed  the  lettering  of 
the  head-stone — "  Timothy  Lindley,  aged  twenty-five  years,"  is 
all  that  is  graven  there — what  need  of  more? — all  his  goodness 
was  known  to  the  soul  that  has  gone  to  meet  him ;  for  it  is  the 
grave  of  poor  Nancy  the  two  men  are  making.  No  spot  could 
be  more  gloomy  than  that  where  she  was  laid,  a  new  and  sel- 
dom-travelled road  on  the  one  side,  and  a  thick  wood  standing 
in  everlasting  shadow  on  the  other. 

When  the  baby  was  a  week  old,  a  man  and  woman,  a  plain- 
looking  and  tearful  pair,  journeyed  that  way,  and  took  her  with 
them.  Many  times  they  kissed  her,  naming  her  Orpha,  and  in 
the  old  house  where  her  mother  had  lived  she  grew  to  woman- 
hood, a  great  comfort  to  them — her  grand-parents — almost  all 
the  comfort  they  had,  in  fact,  for  Willie  had  gone  out  into  the 
world,  and  quite — no,  not  quite,  but  nearly — forgotten  he  was 
ever  a  boy,  and  sat  on  the  gate-post,  with  tears  in  his  eyes, 
looking  after  old  Brindle.  He  was  a  man,  with  all  a  man's 
aims  and  ambitions,  and  though  he  still  loved  and  reverenced 
his  parents — the  love  was  no  longer  primary,  and  sometimes 
for  months  and  months  no  letter  came  to  inquire  of  their  wel- 
fare, or  say  what  were  his  own  hopes  and  fears.  And  Hannah 
was  living,  and  prosperous  and  happy,  and  yet  so  different  was 
her  life  from  theirs  and  so  far  had  she  grown  away  from  them, 
that  they  thought  almost  as  sadly  of  her  as  Nancy. 

Her  fine  house  was  only  a  day's  journey  from  the  old  home- 
stead, and  yet  for  seven  years  she  had  not  made  it  a  visit,  so 
absorbed  with  travels  otherwhere,  and  with  the  thick-crowding 


318  THE    COUNTRY    COUSIN. 

gayeties  of  her  life,  had  she  been.  A  sense,  if  not  the  feeling 
of  filial  affection,  was  not  quite  lost  to  her,  however,  and 
prompted,  mostly  by  duty,  she  one  day  wrote  a  letter  to  the 
old  folks,  and  with  a  tact  which,  in  their  simplicity,  they  inter- 
preted as  the  spontaneous  opening  of  her  heart,  spoke  of  the 
old  life  at  the  homestead,  in  terms  of  tender  endearment, 
almost  of  regret — she  began  with  "  My  much-loved  parents," 
and  closed  with  "Your  ever-dutiful  and  affectionate  child." 
She  was  careful  to  make  no  account  of  her  present  mode  of 
living,  further  than  to  say  they  had  been  blessed  and  pros- 
pered abundantly,  and  lived  very  comfortably,  thank  Prov- 
dence.  She  did  not  say  so  in  so  many  words,  but  the  general 
tone  of  her  letter  implied  that  we  were  all  poor  suffering  sin- 
ners together,  travelling  to  the  same  goal,  but  not  by  precisely 
the  same  road.  Her  oldest  daughter,  Anna,  who  it  was  pre- 
tended was  named  for  herself,  was  shortly  to  be  married,  she 
intimated,  very  advantageously,  into  one  of  the  oldest  and 
most  respectable  families  in  the  country.  She  really  wished 
she  could  see  the  dear  faces  of  her  good  old  father  and  mother 
again,  but  really  her  motherly  duties  were  so  stringent  that  she 
found  herself  still  obliged  to  hold  the  pleasure  in  reserve. 
Upon  what  little  chances  fate  seems  to  turn — when  that  letter 
was  sealed  and  superscribed,  Hannah  threw  it  down  with  a 
yawn,  mingled  with  a  sigh  of  satisfaction,  saying  to  herself, 
"Thank  my  stars,  the  dreaded  task  is  done  for  another 
year ! " 

Could  that  good  old  father  and  mother  have  heard  that 
exclamation,  their  cheeks  would  not  have  flushed  with  the 
happy  glow  of  much  younger  men  and  women,  as  they  did 
when  sweet-voiced  Orpha  stood  up  before  the  candle,  between 


THE    COUNTRY    COUSIN.  319 

the  blessing  and  the  meat  of  the  supper-table,  and  read  that 
letter  aloud.  Orpha  had  been  to  school  a  good  deal  more 
than  they,  and  could  read  writing  as  well  as  print. 

"  Oh,  isn't  it  strange,"  she  exclaimed,  when  she  had  finished 
the  reading,  "  that  cousin  Anna  is  to  be  married  ?  Why,  she 
is  only  just  as  old  as  I  am ; "  and  like  the  child  she  was,  she 
wondered  whether  Anna  could  make  bread  and  pies,  and  was 
thoroughly  accomplished  in  the  beautiful  art  of  house-keep- 
ing. Aunt  Hannah  did  not  say,  but  she  supposed  that  was  to 
be  taken  for  granted,  for  Anna  was  an  accomplished  singer, 
embroidered  well,  and  could  ride  on  horseback,  and  play  chess 
admirably — all  this  Orpha  knew,  and  of  course  the  more  neces- 
sary instruction  of  sewing  and  cooking  had  been  given  first. 
Her  little  head  was  quite  turned  with  wonder  as  to  what  Anna 
would  wear  when  she  was  married,  and  in  what  sort  of  fashion 
the  dress  would  be  made.  She  supposed  her  uncle  could  afford 
to  give  her  a  hundred  dollars,  if  she  wanted  it,  to  buy  wedding 
clothes  with ;  but  for  her  part,  she  could  not  well  see  how  so 
much  could  be  spent.  Once,  when  her  grandfather  had  given 
her  twenty-five  dollars,  she  went  to  the  near  village  and  bought 
everything  she  needed,  and  carried  fifteen  dollars  home  with 
her. 

For  a  few  moments  she  sat  quietly,  seeing  the  serious  hap- 
piness in  the  faces  of  her  grandparents,  and  then  bursting  into 
a  merry  laugh  at  the  idea,  she  said — 

••  Wouldn't  it  be  a  pleasant  surprise  to  Aunt  Hannah,  and  all 
of  them,  to  see  me  coming  into  their  house  some  night,  when 
they  had  not  been  told  anything  about  it,  and  you,  grandfather, 
and  you  too,  grandmother?  Oh,  wouldn't  it  be  delightful?" 

And  as  she  clapped  her  little  brown  hands  in  glee,  her  grand- 


320  THE    COUNTRY    COUSIN. 

parents  could  not  tell  whether  it  were  she  or  the  candle  that 
made  the  room  so  light. 

"I  suppose  likely  Anna  will  go  away  off  somewhere,"  said 
Mrs.  Davidson,  "and  we  shall  never  have  another  chance  of 
seeing  them  all  together." 

She  said  no  more — there  was  no  need  that  she  should  say 
more ;  and  after  a  thoughtful  silence,  the  good-hearted  hus- 
band and  grandfather  said — 

"  If  there  should  come  a  good  snow,  now — seems  to  me  the 
air  feels  like  it." 

"  Well,  grandfather,  suppose  there  should,  what  of  it — say, 
grandfather?" 

"  Oh,  nothing,  pet,"  replied  the  old  man,  trying  to  look 
serious — ''  it  would  be  nice  sleigh-riding,  that's  all." 

Orpha  pouted  a  very  little,  and  broke  the  piece  of  bread  she 
held  in  her  hand  into  small  crumbs  on  her  plate,  till  catching 
the  reassuring  glance  of  her  grandmother,  her  pretty  cheeks 
dimpled  and  blushed  for  shame — for  well  enough  she  knew 
what  her  grandfather  was  thinking  about.  A  good  girl  was 
Orpha,  petted  a  great  deal,  and  spoiled  a  little,  of  course,  but 
with  a  heart  of  unsuspecting  innocence,  and  soft  and  warm  as 
the  sunshine.  As  she  lay  in  bed  two  hours  later,  in  her  cham- 
ber next  the  roof,  she  held  her  eyes  fast  shut  with  her  fingers, 
but  in  vain — they  would  not  be  sleepy.  She  kept  saying  to 
herself  she  did  not  see  what  was  the  reason,  for  useless  as  the 
effort  is,  we  are  always  trying,  all  of  us,  to  deceive  ourselves ; 
and  though  Orpha  held  her  eyes  so  close,  her  ears  were  sensi- 
tive to  every  sound.  She  heard  her  grandparents  talking  by 
the  fire  below  stairs,  and  thought  it  not  improbable  they  were 
planning  a  visit  to  Aunt  Hannah's.  How  she  wanted  to  know 


THE    COUNTRY    COUSIN.  321 

what  they  said ;  to  be  sure,  grandmother  would  tell  her  in  the 
morning — but  what  of  that,  it  was  twenty  years  till  morning. 
Presently,  she  became  almost  sure  she  heard  the  snow  sifting 
against  the  windows  in  the  wind.  She  raised  her  head  on  her 
hand,  and  looked  out,  and  though  she  was  almost  sure  it  was 
snowing  fast,  she  could  not  rest,  and  in  another  moment  was 
pattering  across  the  floor  in  her  bare  feet — never  had  snow 
heartier  greeting,  than  when  its  white  flakes  fell  in  her  hand. 
No  little  bird  under  its  mother's  wing  ever  felt  more  comforta- 
ble and  happy  than  she  that  night  in  her  own  warm  bed.  Not 
selfishly  happy — but  how  could  she  help  being  glad,  when  her 
grandparents  and  she  were  going  to  give  Aunt  Hannah  and 
the  young  ladies  such  a  surprise  of  pleasure.  To  be  sure,  she 
wanted  to  see  Anna's  wedding  dresses  and  all  her  fine  things, 
and  felt  a  little  curiosity  to  know  what  manner  of  husband  she 
had  chosen — whether  his  eyes  were  blue  or  black ;  if  he  wore 
his  beard,  and  if  he  were  worthy ;  but  surely  he  was,  for  her 
Cousin  Anna  would  never  marry  a  man  who  was  not  both  very 
wise  and  very  good. 

The  voices  of  the  old  folks  by  the  fire  had  been  still  a  good 
while,  and  in  the  distance  she  heard  the  roosters  crow  for  mid- 
night, as  she  glided  from  dreams  to  dreams,  the  sleeping  less 
delusive  than  the  waking  ones. 

It  was  well  for  Orpha  that  she  did  not  hear  what  the  old 
folks  said,  as  laying  the  embers  together,  they  trimmed  the  can- 
dle, and  spelled  through  Hannah's  carelessly  written  letter — 
it  was  well  she  did  not  see  the  tears  that  wet  it  as  they 
reproached  themselves  for  their  long  neglect  of  their  darling 
child — they  had  sent  her  presents  of  apples  and  potatoes  and 
flour  every  year,  but  they  had  never  once  gone  to  her  house ; 

14* 


322  THE    COUNTRY    COUSIN. 

fifty  miles  seemed  a  great  journey,  arid  so  the  faces  of  their 
grandchildren  were  strange  to  them.  They  had  thought  (they 
were  sorry  for  it  now)  that  Hannah  would  not  care  about  seeing 
her  old-fashioned  father  and  mother  in  her  stylish  house  in 
town.  They  never  once  saw,  as  they  spelled  through  the  let- 
ter, that  she  did  not  say,  "  Come  to  me,"  after  the  "  I  cannot 
go  to  you  ; "  nor  did  they  notice  that  Orpha's  name  was  not 
once  in  the  letter.  Hannah  could  not  help  wishing  to  see 
Orpha,  and  loving  her  when  she  knew  how  pretty  and  how 
good  she  was ;  they  knew  that ;  and  to  the  dear  child  it  would 
be  like  a  journey  to  paradise — that  they  might  well  be  assured 
of — so  they  said,  as  they  folded  the  letter  carefully  and  laid  it 
next  to  the  picture  of  little  Samuel,  between  the  leaves  of  the 
big  Bible. 

"  We  are  growing  old  now,  and  if  we  ever  go  to  see  Han- 
nah, there  will  not  come  a  better  time — it  will  be  a  tiresome 
day's  ride ;  but  for  Orpha's  sake  we  must  make  ourselves 
strong  enough  to  endure  the  fatigue." 

It  was  well  Orpha  did  not  see  their  tears,  and  learn  that  it 
was  more  for  her  sake  than  theirs  the  visit  was  planned. 

How  sleepy  she  was  in  the  morning,  when  her  grandmother 
said,  "  Come,  Orpha ! "  It  seemed  as  if  she  had  but  just  come 
to  bed  5  she  could  hardly  open  her  eyes,  and  the  "  Yes,  grand- 
mother," was  a  good  deal  fainter  than  common ;  but  when 
"  Come,  Orpha,"  was  repeated,  with  the  added  words,  "  it's 
time  to  get  up,  pet,  if  you  want  to  go  to  Aunt  Hannah's  with 
your  grandfather  and  me,"  she  was  wide  awake,  and  sitting 
straight  up  in  bed  in  a  moment.  She  saw  the  snow  piled 
against  the  window,  white  and  high — the  candle  in  her  grand- 
mother's hand,  for  it  was  not  daylight  yet,  and  her  own  fresh 


THE    COUNTRY    COUSIX.  323 

and  smoothly  ironed  clothes  over  her  arm.  "  Oh,  grand- 
.mother ! "  that  was  all  she  could  say  for  the  happy,  happy 
tears. 

Redder  than  a  clover  field  in  June  was  all  the  east,  when 
having  carefully  secured  the  doors,  and  sprinkled  the  hickory 
sticks  in  the  fireplace  with  water,  they  set  out,  breaking  and 
ploughing  their  way  through  the  deep  snow,  in  the  old  wood- 
sled.  Nobody  would  notice  that  it  was  not  the  best  sleigh  in 
the  world,  Orpha  drought,  for  grandfather  had  tied  the  newly 
painted  wagon-body  on  the  sled,  and  that  was  filled  with  straw, 
and  overspread  with  the  nicest  coverlet  of  all  the  house. 

What  a  pretty  pink  the  clouds  made  on  the  snow — she  was 
never  weary  of  looking  at  it,  and  how  strangely  the  cattle 
looked  in  pastures  of  snow,  and  the  haystacks,  crusted  like 
pound-cakes.  Grandfather's  horses  would  be  the  admiration 
of  all  the  city,  she  was  sure,  so  gay  and  fine  they  looked,  their 
manes  loose  in  the  wind,  and  their  ears  trembling  with  the 
exhilaration  of  the  snow-drive. 

For  the  first  seven  miles  the  scene  was  quite  familiar — she 
had  twice  been  that  distance  on  the  road — orce  with  her 
grandfather  to  mill,  and  once  to  a  funeral ;  but  the  strange 
country  into  which  they  went,  after  crossing  the  creek  where 
the  mill  was,  afforded  new  and  surprising  interest.  The  sleigh- 
ride,  in  itself,  was  a  perfect  delight, — to  watch  the  snow  drop- 
ping from  the  bent  boughs,  the  birds  dipping  into  it  with  such 
merry  twitters,  and  to  lean  down  over  the  sled-side  and  plough 
a  tiny  furrow  with  her  hand,  were  a  great  joy,  without  the 
crowning  fact  that  it  was  to  end  in  the  evening  by  arrival  at 
Aunt  Hannah's. 

Now  she  came  forward  to  the  front  of  the  sled  and  held 


324  THE    COUNTRY    COUSIN. 

grandmother's  hands  in  hers,  wondering  why  they  were  so  cold  ; 
now  she  turned  up  the  collar  of  grandfather's  overcoat,  brush- 
ing back  the  gray  hair  that  the  wind  blew  about  his  eyes ;  and 
now,  wrapping  his  hands  in  her  woollen  shawl,  and  taking  the 
reins  for  a  little  while,  she  could  drive  as  well  as  he,  she  said; 
upon  which  he  smiled,  patting  her  cheek,  but  not  telling  her 
that  the  horses  were  so  well  trained,  and  so  sobered  now  with 
the  distance  already  travelled,  that  they  would  go  straight  along 
without  any  guiding  at  all.  Now  they  went  through  a  wide 
brawling  creek,  where  the  water  ran  fast  through  brown  sand- 
stones and  cakes  of  broken  ice,  and  Orpha  trembled  a  little  as 
grandfather  walked  out  on  the  tongue  of  the  sled  and  loosened 
the  bridle-rein  so  that  the  horses  could  drink.  Cold  as  it  was, 
their  sides  were  all  wet,  and  they  breathed  very  hard  and  fast 
between  the  drinking.  At  length,  grandfather  pulled  off  his 
blue  mitten,  and  pulled  out  his  big  silver  watch  and  said  it  was 
two  o'clock,  and  a  little  while  after  that,  where  a  painted  sign 
erected  at  the  forks  of  the  road,  and  a  curious  old  house,  having 
no  fence  in  front  of  it,  stood,  they  stopped  to  procure  an  hour's 
rest  and  some  refreshments  for  themselves  and  their  horses. 
There  was  a  great  fire  in  the  big  room  into  which  they  were 
shown,  before  which  sat  half  a  dozen  travellers,  eating  apples 
and  cakes,  and  drinking  cider  and  whiskey ;  across  the  middle 
of  the  floor  a  long  table  was  spread,  and,  at  one  end  of  it,  there 
sat  a  young  man,  sipping  tea  and  writing,  alternately.  He 
looked  up  from  the  sheet  before  him,  on  the  entrance  of  our 
party,  and  having  made  a  friendly  salutation,  such  as  country 
folks,  though  strangers,  are  in  the  habit  of  giving  one  another, 
resumed  his  pen  and  was  presently  quite  absorbed;  his  heavy 
black  hair  fell  over  and  partly  concealed  a  smooth  fair  fore- 


THE    COUNTRY    COUSIN.  325 

head,  as  he  wrote,  and  a  smile  of  extreme  sweetness  played 
round  the  mouth,  betraying  no  irresolution,  but  seeming  rather 
the  outward  shining  of  firm  and  good  principles.  The  health- 
ful glow  of  his  cheek  was  in  fine  contrast  with  the  blackness  of 
his  full  curling  beard,  and  the  pearly  teeth,  sound  and  even, 
with  the  ripe  redness  of  the  lips. 

Orpha  thought  she  had  never  seen  so  handsome  a  man  in  her 
life,  and  in  verity,  she  never  had  seen  beauty  cultivated  and 
matured  under  the  refining  influences  of  intellect  and  art.  She 
could  not  tell  why,  but  there  was  an  indefinable  air  of  superi- 
ority about  him,  that  made  even  the  schoolmaster  and  the  vil- 
lage clergyman  seem  commonplace  in  comparison  with  him. 
When  her  thoughts  reverted  to  her  Cousin  Annie,  she  could  not 
imagine  how  she  could  have  fallen  in  love  with  any  one,  not 
having  seen  the  young  traveller.  But  how  much  did  his  beauty 
increase  in  her  eyes,  when,  looking  up  as  he-  folded  his  letter, 
he  made  haste  to  offer  her  grandfather  (who  was  sitting  on  a 
hard  bench)  the  leather-cushioned  chair  in  which  himself  had 
been  sitting,  and  with  a  gesture  and  a  word,  not  rude,  but 
authoritative,  caused  the  men  at  the  fire  to  dispose  them- 
selves in  half  the  room  they  had  previously  occupied,  so 
giving  her  grandmother  and  herself  a  warmer  feeling  of 
the  fire  from  which,  till  then,  they  had  almost  been  shut 
out. 

"  How  far  is  it  to  the  town  of ?"  said  the  old  man  to 

the  landlord,  as  he  entered  with  hot  doughnuts  and  a  fresh  pot 
of  cider ;  but  the  question  was  too  modestly  low  for  that  blus- 
tering personage  to  hear. 

"It  is  twenty-two  miles,  sir,"  replied  the  young  man,  who 
had  heard  the  question. 


326  THE    COUNTRY    COUSIN. 

"  Are  you  much  acquainted  there  ?  "  Mr.  Davidson  ventured 
timidly  to  inquire. 

The  young  man  answered  that  he  knew  the  city  pretty  thor- 
oughly, and  had  indeed  a  large  personal  acquaintance  with  the 
inhabitants. 

"  Then,  perhaps,  you  know  or  have  heard  of  my  son,  Joseph 
C.  Pettibone,"  suggested  the  old  man,  his  face  aglow  with  ani- 
mation. 

"  Oh,  yes,  sir — no  one  in  the  whole  city  better — an  admirable 
family. 

"  Why,  isn't  it  strange !"  exclaimed  the  father,  turning  to  his 
wife.  "  This  young  man  here  knows  Mr.  Pettibone.  I  am 
glad  I  have  met  you,"  he  continued,  offering  his  hand  to  the 
stranger ;  and  he  went  on  ingenuously — "  we  are  on  our  way  to 
Mr.  Pettibone's  house — my  wife  here,  and  this  little  girl — we 
haven't  seen  any  of  them  these  twenty  years,  nor  they  us. 
Indeed,  Orpha,  our  little  granddaughter,  has  never  seen  her 
Aunt  Hannah  Pettibone  at  all,  and  you  may  be  sure  she  is 
happy  enough,  having  a  sleigh-ride  and  a  chance  to  see  the 
town  and  her  aunt  and  cousins ;"  and  tenderly  he  patted  the 
cheek  of  Orpha,  already  blushing  painfully  with  the  attention 
called  to  her.  "  And  so  you  know  Mr.  Pettibone,  and  Hannah, 
and  all  of  them  " — a  new  thought  seemed  to  strike  the  old  gen- 
tleman—and he  continued,  "  maybe  you  know  a  young  man 
of  the  name  of  Hammond,  who  is  shortly,  Hannah  writes  me, 
lo  be  married  to  her  daughter  Annie." 

There  was  a  confused  heightening  of  color  in  the  cheek  of 
the  handsome  stranger,  and  he  bit  his  lip,  to  which,  however, 
the  accustomed  smile  came  back  with  unwonted  brightness  as 
he  replied  that  he  had  some  acquaintance  with  the  young  man, 


THE    COUNTRY    COUSIN.  327 

and  was  just  returning  from  a  visit  to  his  father's  family,  but 
that  he  was  quite  ignorant  of  the  proposed  marriage. 

"A  family  of  position  and  influence,  I  suppose,  from  what 
Hannah  says,"  mused  the  grandfather  aloud ;  "  she  seemed  to 
think  it  would  be  a  fine  match  for  her  girl — what  do  you 
think  ?  Was  the  young  man  at  home  when  you  were  at  his 
father's  ?" 

"  Why,  yes,"  replied  the  stranger,  "  he  was  there,  but  in 
fact  I  did  not  converse  with  him  much." 

"  Well,  do  you  think  Annie  is  going  to  do  pretty  well  ?"  con- 
tinued the  grandfather,  perseveringly ;  "  great  fathers  don't 
always  have  great  sons,  nor  even  good  ones." 

The  young  man  replied  that  he  hardly  knew  what  to  think, 
and  hastened  to  interrupt  the  conversation  by  inquiring  of  the 
landlord  what  time  the  coach  would  arrive. 

That  personage  raised  himself  on  tiptoe,  and  looking  from 
the  window,  said  the  coach  was  just  coming  in  sight;  and  tak- 
ing out  his  watch,  he  continued  in  a  tone  that  indicated  espe- 
cial felicity — 

"  She  is  making  good  time  to-day — that  coach  is  ;  but,  young 
man,  your  chance  of  getting  aboard  is  slim,  mighty  slim,  sir — 
black  as  she  can  be  with  passengers  on  the  outside ;"  and  this 
additional  fact  evidently  gave  him  increased  happiness. 

"  I  have  provided  against  that,"  said  the  young  man  (a 
shadow  crossing  his  face  as  he  spoke),  "in  part,  at  least;"  and 
giving  a  letter  into  the  landlord's  hand  he  begged  that  he 
would  see  it  forwarded. 

"  You  are  designing  to  reach  the  city  to-night  ?"  said  Mr. 
Davidson,  again  addressing  the  young  traveller. 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  "  Mrs.  Pettibone  has  a  kind  of  birthnight 


328  THE    COUNTRY    COUSIN. 

merrymaking  at  her  house  to-night,  and  I  had  promised  myself 
the  pleasure  of  being  with  them ;"  and  he  went  on  to  say  his 
horse  had  fallen  lame  that  day,  and  he  had  proposed  leaving  him 
in  the  landlord's  care,  and  going  forward  in  the  coach. 

"  You  are  very  welcome,  sir,  to  a  seat  with  us,"  said  the 
grandfather,  cordially ;  and  surveying  the  fashionable  exterior 
of  the  young  man  he  added :  "  we  have  only  a  sled ;  but  our 
horses  are  in  good  order,  and  we  move  pretty  fast  and  very 
comfortably." 

Half  an  hour  after  this,  the  horses  having  been  regaled  with 
oats  and  an  hour's  rest,  our  party,  with  the  accession  of  the 
young  man,  were  gliding  briskly  through  the  snow. 

The  variedly  amusing  talk  of  the  young  man  kept  the  old 
people  from  feeling  the  cold  as  they  did  in  the  morning ;  and 
then  he  was  so  kind,  taking  his  fine  comforter  from  his  neck 
and  wrapping  it  about  that  of  the  old  farmer,  and  quite  forcing 
Airs.  Davidson  to  wear  his  plaided  shawl,  and  taking  the  reins 
for  an  hour  when  the  hands  of  the  old  man  became  numb. 

Not  one  word  spoke  Orpha,  but  such  smiles  dimpled  the 
cheeks  that  were  nestled  among  brown  curls  and  almost  hid  in 
her  deep  hood,  with  every  attention  bestowed  on  her  grand- 
parents, that  no  words  were  needed  to  assure  the  young  man 
of  her  goodness  of  heart.  The  old  folks  grew  tired  after  a 
while,  and  sat  silent,  wishing  the  journey  at  an  end,  and  the 
stranger  singing — it  may  have  been  to  himself,  it  may  have 
been  to  Orpha — 

"  It  may  be  for  years,  and  it  may  be  forever, 
Then  why  art  thou  silent,  thou  bride  of  my  heart." 

They  moved  on  and  on,  and  at  last  to  its  lullaby  sound,  Orpha 
nestled  down  in  the  coverlet  and  fell  asleep. 


THE    COUNTRY    COUSIN.  329 

When  she  awoke  it  was  night,  and  the  sled  standing  still 
before  the  finest  house  she  had  ever  seen — all  brilliant  with 
lights  and  musical  with  voices.  Lamps  were  shining  down  the 
street,  carriages  and  beautiful  sleighs  moving  to  and  fro,  and 
houses  and  people  as  far  as  she  could  see. 

"  Well,  petty,  we  have  got  there,"  said  the  grandfather  ;  and 
taking  the  handkerchief  from  her  face,  she  sat  up ;  and,  in  her 
bewilderment,  said  almost  sadly  : 

"  I  am  sorry  ;  I  wish  it  was  further." 

"  So  do  I,"  said  the  young  stranger,  "  from  my  heart ;"  and 
he  almost  lifted  Orpha  out  of  the  sled. 

"  I  wonder  whether  Mr.  Pettibone  has  any  stable  ?"  asked 
Mr.  Davidson  of  the  young  man ;  adding,  as  he  patted  the 
neck  of  his  horses  caressingly — "  poor  fellows,  you  are  tired, 
aint  you  ?" 

"  I  know  where  he  keeps  his  horses,"  replied  the  young  man  ; 
"  go  right  in,  and  I  will  attend  to  them,  if  you  will  trust  me," 
and  he  ran  up  the  steps  and  gave  the  bell  a  vigorous  pull. 

"  See  they  don't  drink  while  they  are  so  warm,  if  you 
please,"  said  the  careful  farmer,  availing  himself  of  the  young 
man's  kindness ;  "  and  that  they  have  plenty  of  meal  and  oats, 
and  I  will  see  you  by  and  by  here,  at  my  son's  house,  and 
thank  you." 

"  I  guess  we  have  got  to  the  wrong  place,  like  enough,"  he 
said,  looking  inquiringly  at  his  wife,  as  he  saw  the  grin 
in  the  face  of  the  negro  who  opened  the  door,  and  the 
number  of  black  men  and  women  moving  through  the  great 
hall. 

"  Does  Mr.  Pettibone  live  here  ?"  he  inquired. 

"  Yes,  sah." 


330  THE    COUNTRY    COUSIN. 

"  Joseph  C.  Pettibone  ?"  repeated  the  old  man,  still  in 
doubt. 

"  Yes,  sah  ;  who  shall  I  announce  ?" 

"  Why,  I  will  announce  myself,"  said  Mr.  Davidson,  indig- 
nantly ;  "  Mrs.  Pettibone  is  my  daughter.  Will  we  find  her  in 
here  where  the  frolic  seems  to  be?"  And  with  his  good  wife 
beside  him,  he  made  his  way  to  the  open  door  of  the  brilliant 
drawing-room,  poor  Orpha,  trembling  like  a  frightened  bird, 
nestling  close  to  her  grandmother's  skirts. 

A  stylish  and  richly  dressed  woman  advanced  as  their 
shadows  crossed  the  threshold,  and  started,  retreating  slightly, 
and  a  kind  of  blank  surprise  taking  the  place  of  the  welcom- 
ing smile  she  had  assumed,  when  she  saw  the  persons  who 
came  behind  the  shadows. 

The  mother's  heart,  rather  than  her  eyes,  told  her  that  it 
was  Hannah,  and  with  the  sobbing  cry  of  "  My  daughter !" 
she  would  have  taken  her  in  her  arms;  but  the  white-gloved 
hand  of  the  lady  motioned  her  back — the  lights  dazzled,  and 
the  wonderstruck  faces  repelled  her;  staggering,  rather  than 
walking,  she  retreated. 

"  Hannah,  Hannah,"  said  the  old  man,  giving  one  reproach- 
ful look,  and  with  his  head  dropping  on  his  bosom,  and  the 
tears  making  everything  dim  in  spite  of  the  much  light,  he 
retraced  solemnly  and  slowly  the  way  he  had  come. 

At  the  door  they  were  overtaken  by  Mr.  Pettibone,  whose 
strong  common  sense  had  been  outraged  by  his  wife's  recep- 
tion of  her  parents,  though  perhaps  his  feelings  had  little  to 
do  with  his  manner,  which  was  cordial  enough. 

He  reminded  them  how  long  it  was  since  they  had  met, 
adding  that  a  child  might  be  forgiven  for  forgetting  even  her 


THE    COUNTRY   COUSIN.  331 

mother,  in  the  course  of  twenty  years.  Hannah  would  be  as 
rejoiced  as  himself  when  she  knew  it  was  her  own  father  and 
mother  were  come.  All  they  could  do,  however,  the  old  folks 
could  not  feel  what  the  man's  words  implied.  "  And  this  little 
body,"  he  said,  shaking  the  trembling  hand  of  Orpha,  "  who  is 
she  ?" 

"  Nancy's  child,  to  be  sure,"  answered  the  old  man. 

"  Nancy,  Nancy ;  who  is  she  ?  Oh,  I  remember  now,  the 
one  who  went  to  the  new  country,"  for  Mr.  Pettibone  felt  it 
incumbent  on  him  to  remember  something,  and  believing  he 
had  struck  the  right  vein,  continued :  "  I  was  under  the 
impression  that  Nancy's  children  were  all  boys.  Well,  how 
does  she  like  the  new  country?" 

"  We  don't  know,"  the  father  said,  wiping  his  eyes ;  "  poor 
Nancy  has  gone  to  the  country  from  whence  no  traveller  re- 
turns." 

Half  believing  and  half  disbelieving  that  Hannah  had  in 
truth  failed  to  recognize  them,  the  old  folks  suffered  themselves 
to  be  conducted  to  one  of  the  chambers,  furnished  so  luxu- 
riously and  warmed  and  lighted  so  comfortably,  that  if  any- 
thing could  have  made  them  forget  the  chilly  air  which  rustled 
out  of  Hannah's  brocade,  they  would  have  forgotten  it. 

In  the  second  meeting  with  her  parents,  she  hid  her  face  for 
a  moment  in  her  lace  handkerchief,  but  the  tears,  if  she  shed 
them,  left  her  eyes  dry ;  and  though  she  said  she  was  never 
so  happy,  she  looked  distressed  and  mortified,  and  seemed  not 
to  know  what  to  do  or  say. 

Her  children  were  brought  and  introduced  to  their  dear  grand- 
papa and  grandmamma,  and  to  pretty  cousin  Orpha,  and  hav- 
ing kissed  the  cheeks  of  the  old  folks,  retired  very  properly — 


332  THE    COUNTRY    COUSIN. 

gay  butterflies  that  they  were.  Orpha,  in  her  close-fitting 
woollen  frock,  feared  they  would  catch  cold  with  bare  neck  and 
arms,  but  she  dare  not  say  so ;  as  with  admiring  eyes 
(for  they  looked  very  pretty)  she  watched  them  leaving  the 
room. 

Annie,  a  tall,  slender  girl,  with  a  colorless  and  expressionless 
face,  and  thin,  flaxen  hair,  insisted  that  Orpha  should  wear 
one  of  her  dresses  and  accept  the  services  of  her  maid — she 
could  easily  be  dressed  before  midnight,  and  that  was  quite 
early  enough. 

Mrs.  Pettibone  could  not  leave  her  guests — Mr.  Hammond 
would  of  course  be  greatly  annoyed  by  Annie's  absence,  her 
dear  parents  must  excuse  them — they  would  hasten  to  join 
them  the  earliest  moment  at  which  they  were  at  liberty.  Some 
wine,  sweetmeats  and  cake  were  sent  up,  very  unlike  the  sub- 
stantial supper  they  had  hoped  to  take  with  their  dear  children 
and  children's  children. 

Orpha  was  not  hungry,  she  said ;  but  climbing  to  her  grand- 
father's knee,  smoothed  his  long,  silver  hair,  and  nestling  her 
cheek  against  his  home-made  coat,  than  which  she  had 
thought,  till  that  night,  nothing  could  be  finer,  she  fell  asleep, 
thinking  in  her  heart  she  did  not  care  what  anybody  said,  her 
grandfather  was  just  as  good  as  any  one.  And  she  was  right 
— good  little  Orpha. 

Having  seen  the  sled  and  horses  of  his  new  friend  properly 
cared  for,  our  young  traveller  made  haste  to  present  himself  at 
Mr.  Pettibone's,  wondering  how  those  dimpled  cheeks  would 
look  outside  the  muffling  hood. 

To  his  surprise,  he  neither  saw  nor  heard  anything  of  the 
country  people — he  feared  it  was  all  a  dream,  and  seating  him- 


THE    COUNTRY    COUSIN.  333 

self  apart  in  the  shadow  of  a  curtain,  recalled  minutely  all  the 
circumstances  of  the  afternoon.  Surely  he  was  not  mistaken  ; 
we  come  so  much  nearer  guileless  natures,  the  impression  they 
leave  upon  us  is  deeper  than  all  the  artificial  devices  in  the 
world  are  able  to  leave.  He  could  almost  hear  the  voice  of  the 
grandfather  and  see  his  benignant  smile,  and  no  matter  at  what 
beauty  he  looked,  his  eyes  could  not  see  it  for  the  dimples  of 
Orpha.  He  was  not  long  left  to  his  quiet  meditations — Mrs. 
Pettibone  soon  joined,  and  having  rallied  him  on  the  sentimen- 
tal seriousness  of  his  mood,  protested  that  it  quite  baffled  her 
powers  to  dissipate ;  and,  having  deputed  her  daughter,  Anna, 
whose  skill  she  hoped  would  be  more  effective,  she  playfully, 
let  us  hope  not  designedly,  retired. 

To  any  one  except  the  young  lady  addressed,  Mr.  Hammond 
would  have  been  delightfully  entertaining ;  but  to  her  he  was 
particularly  unsatisfactory — he  said  not,  in  short,  what  she  had 
expected  him  to  say. 

When  Orpha  awoke  in  the  morning  and  looked  about  the 
fine  chamber,  she  could  not  at  first  tell  where  she  was,  and 
with  memory  came  a"  strange,  sad,  home-sick  feeling  that  she 
had  never  in  her  life  known  till  then.  When  she  was  dressed 
in  her  brown  flannel  frock,  she  looked  at  herself  in  the  great 
looking-glass,  before  her,  with  painful  dissatisfaction.  After- 
wards she  seated  herself  at  the  window  and  looked  into  the  cold, 
dreary  street.  Few  persons  were  stirring  yet,  for  it  was  early  ; 
the  snow  was  driving  before  the  wind  in  dismal  gusts — all 
looked  strange  and  dreary,  dreary;  despite  all  she  could  do, 
the  tears  kept  dropping  and  dropping  on  her  little  brown  hands, 
folded  together  in  her  lap.  When  the  first  sunshine  touched 
the  window,  she  held  up  her  handkerchief  to  dry  the  tears  in 


334  THE    COUNTRY    COUSIN. 

its  light.  Why  did  she  blush  and  smile  and  tremble  all  at  once  ? 
it  is  not  her  own  name  wrought  with  black  silk  thread  that 
she  sees — Richard  Hammond  is  written  there  in  clear  black 
characters.  How  came  she  by  it  ?  Ah,  she  remembers  now  that 
when  she  awoke  from  sleep  in  the  sled  last  night,  she  found  her 
face  covered  with  a  handkerchief — could  this  have  been  the  one  ? 

Richard  Hammond  rose  early  too — it  was  not  his  habit,  but 
that  morning  he  could  not  sleep — of  course  he  could  not 
imagine  why,  and  the  thought  came  to  him  that  a  little  exer- 
cise before  breakfast  might  be  beneficial,  and  with  no  defined 
plan  or  motive,  he  bent  his  steps  in  the  direction  of  Mr.  Petti- 
bone's  house ;  he  saw  those  tearful  eyes  at  the  window,  and 
intuition  told  him  why  they  had  grown  so  dim  since  yesterday, 
and  his  heart  knocked  tumultuously  to  get  out  of  his  bosom 
and  go  up  to  that  window  and  comfort  her. 

Two  hours  later,  he  was  ringing  the  bell,  and  inquiring  for 
Mr.  Davidson.  It  was  his  duty  to  tell  the  old  gentleman  how 
well  his  horses  were  doing  and  where  they  were. 

"  I  am  glad  you  have  come,"  said  the  old  man,  "  our  folks 
think  they  have  been  in  town  long  enough  ;"  but  the  light 
which  beamed  in  his  face  said  very  plainly  how  pleased  he,  too, 
was  with  the  prospect  of  going  home. 

"  Not  to-day,  surely,"  said  the  young  man  ;  but  the  farmer 
thought  he  would  get  up  the  horses,  drive  about  a  little  and 
show  his  folks  the  town,  and  then  start  home — they  would  have 
a  full  moon  to  light  them,  he  said,  and  if  they  were  a  little 
late  in  getting  there,  why  no  matter. 

Mr.  Hammond  knew  the  town  well ;  everything  that  was 
worth  seeing  he  would  be  happy  to  show  his  new  friends,  if 
they  would  accept  his  guidance. 


THE    COUNTRY    CO  US IX.  335 

They  could  not  think  of  making  him  such  trouble,  the  old 
man  said ;  but  it  was  evidently  not  a  trouble,  and  when,  some 
minutes  later,  the  horses  came  prancing  up  to  the  door,  it  was 
Richard  Hammond  who  was  driving  them. 

Neither  Mrs.  Pettibone  nor  Anna  came  near  the  front  door 
to  see  their  guests  go  away — they  were  afraid  of  the  chilly  air 
of  morning ;  but  what  was  their  astonishment  and  confusion 
when,  on  looking  from  the  window,  they  saw  Richard  Hammond 
almost  lifting  Orpha  into  the  sled,  and  with  a  tenderness  of 
manner  which  they  had  never  seen  till  then. 

He  saw  them — smiled  and  kissed  his  hand  gaily  as  they 
drove  off,  and  the  last  their  wonder-struck  vision  saw  of  him 
he  was  carefully  wrapping  the  coverlet  about  the  young  girl's 
feet.  No,  not  the  last  they  saw  of  him — the  following  winter, 
looking  handsomer  and  happier  than  ever,  they  chanced  to  see 
him  at  the  opera,  and  beside  him,  the  sunny  lengths  of 
her  hair  rippling  over  her  dimples  and  half  down  her  snowy 
cloak,  a  young  woman  whose  beauty  was  evidently  the  admira- 
tion of  the  house. 

"  I  wonder  what  Hannah  and  her  proud  daughters  think  of 
their  country  cousin  now !"  said  Grandfather  Davidson,  as  he 
snuffed  the  candles,  and  heaped  high  the  fire,  the  while  his  wife 
polished  the  silver  tea-pot,  and  adjusted  the  pound-cake  and 
custard  cups,  on  the  evening  '•  the  children "  were  expected 
home  from  their  bridal  visit  in  town. 

The  two  pins  in  the  sleeve  of  the  grandmother's  black  silk 
dre.;s,  were  not  straighter  and  brighter  than  everything  else 
about  the  house ;  and  the  hearts  of  the  old  folks  were  not 
happier  their  own  marriage-day  than  when  the  joyous  barking  of 
the  watch-dog  at  the  door  told  them  "  the  children  "  were  come. 


AN   OLD   MAID'S   STORY. 


I  WAS  sitting  one  summer  afternoon  in  the  shadow  of  a  grape- 
vine and  cherry-tree — for  the  one  running  through  the  top  of 
the  other  cast  a  shadow  on  the  short,  thick  grass  beneath, 
through  which  scarcely  a  sunbeam  found  way.  I  was  sitting 
there  with  an  open  book  on  my  knee,  but  I  was  not  reading ; 
on  the  contrary,  two  or  three  thicknesses  of  the  cloth  which  I 
had  been  sewing  at  intervals  lay  on  the  open  page,  and  on 
this  rested  my  idle  hands.  I  was  not  working,  nor  thinking 
of  work.  On  the  side  of  the  hill,  behind  me,  the  mowers  were 
wading  through  billows  of  red  clover — they  were  not  whistling 
nor  singing  that  I  remember  of — they  had  no  grape-vines  not 
cherry-tree  limbs  between  their  bent  backs  and  the  sunbeams 
that  fell  straight  and  hot  upon  them — and  yet,  perhaps,  they 
were  happier  than  I  with  all  my  cool  shadows,  for  we  have  to 
pay  to  the  uttermost  farthing  for  the  enjoyments  of  this  life- 
The  water  was  nearly  dried  up  in  the  run  that  went  crookedly 
across  the  hollow,  and  the  sober  noise  it  made  I  could  not  hear. 
The  grey,  dry  dust  was  an  inch  deep  along  the  road,  which 
was  consequently  almost  as  still  as  the  meadows.  Now  and 
then  a  team  went  by,  taking  a  little  cloud  with  it ;  and  now 


AN   OLD   MAID'S   STORY.  337 

and  then  a  young  woman  trotted  along  on  the  old  mare,  which 
at  home  did  nothing  but  switch  flies,  and  was  evidently  averse 
to  any  other  employment.  Two  or  three  young  women  I  re- 
member to  have  seen  go  along  with  bundles  on  their  saddle- 
horns,  and  a  little  cloud  of  dust,  similar  to  that  in  which  they 
moved,  half  a  mile,  perhaps,  behind  them,  in  which  trotted  the 
colt,  after  its  mother.  I  had  seen,  without  especially  noticing 
them,  and  yet  it  was  an  unusual  thing  that  two  or  three  young 
women  should  ride  along  on  the  same  afternoon. 

Immediately  above  my  head,  and  fronting  me,  there  was  a 
porch,  level  with  the  second  floor  of  the  house,  and  on  this 
porch  a  young,  rosy-cheeked  girl  was  spinning  wool.  She  was 
running  up  and  down  as  gaily  as  if  it  were  gold  and  not  com- 
mon wool  she  held  in  her  hand,  and  her  face  was  beaming  as 
though  the  rumble  of  her  wheel  were  pleasantest  music. 
Her  thoughts  run  little  further  than  the  thread  she  spun,  good 
simple  girl,  and,  therefore  never  became  so  tangled  as  to  vex 
and  puzzle  her  ;  and  so  it  was  easy  to  spin  and  smile,  and 
smile  and  spin,  all  day.  Once  in  a  while  the  high  well-sweep 
came  down  and  down,  and  then  went  up  and  up — the  iron 
hoops  of  the  bucket  rattled  against  the  curb — some  mower 
drank  his  fill,  and  with  a  deep  breath  of  satisfaction  went 
away,  never  wondering  how  or  why  half  the  clover  along  hia 
path  drew  so  bright  a  red  from  the  black  ground,  and  the 
other  so  sweet  a  white  ;  and  it  was  well  he  did  not  wonder, 
for  had  he  done  so  ever  so  much  all  would  have  ended  in  the 
fact  that  there  was  red  and  white  clover,  and  that  the  same 
ground  produced  both. 

A  little  shower  of  dust  blew  over  me  and  settled  in  the 
green  grass  and  the  white  dying  roses  about  me,  and  Surly, 

15 


338  AN  OLD  MAID'S  STORY. 

our  dapple-nosed  house-dog,  dashed  by  me  aud  gave  noisy  wel- 
come to  the  visitor  then  about  unlatching  the  gate.  I  hasten- 
ed to  conceal  my  book  under  the  rosebush  at  hand,  and  to 
shake  the  dust  from  my  work  preparatory  to  using  my  needle, 
for  to  be  found  reading  or  idle  would  have  been  considered 
alike  disgraceful  in  the  estimation  of  our  neighbors.  When 
the  visitor  appeared,  I  recognized  Miss  Emeline  Barker,  and  at 
the  same  time  became  aware  that  she  was  bent  on  holiday 
pleasure.  She  had  been  riding  on  horseback,  but  her  white 
dress  showed  scarcely  a  wrinkle,  so  well  had  she  managed  it — 
a  sash  of  pink  ribbon  depended  from  the  waist,  and  the  short 
sleeves  were  looped  up  with  roses — her  straw  hat  was  trimmed 
with  flowers  and  ribbon,  and  her  boots  were  smoothly  laced 
with  tape  instead  of  leather  strings.  But  more  than  her 
dress,  her  face  betrayed  the  joyous  nature  of  the  errand  she 
was  bent  on.  "  Somebody  is  going  to  be  married,"  was  my 
first  thought,  "  and  Emeline  has  come  to  invite  me  to  the  wed- 
ding," and  I  was  confirmed  in  this  when  she  declined  the  seat 
I  offered,  with  the  assurance  that  she  had  not  tine  to  stay  a 
moment.  Expectation  was  on  tiptoe,  and  when  I  said  "  how 
do  they  all  at  home  ?"  I  had  no  doubt  she  would  tell  me 
that  Mary  Ann,  who  was  her  elder  sister,  was  to  be  married  ; 
but  she  answered  simply  that  all  were  very  well,  and  went  on  to 
tell  about  the  harvest,  the  heat  of  the  day,  and  other  common- 
places, just  as  if  she  wore  her  every-day  calico  dress  and  not  a 
white  niuslin  one,  looped  up  at  the  sleeves  with  roses. 

Directly  she  bid  me  good  bye  without  having  said  anything 
extraordinary  at  all,  and  then,  as  if  suddenly  recollecting  it,  she 
exclaimed,  "  Oh  !  I  want  to  see  Jane  a  moment."  I  pointed  to 
the  porch  where  Jane  Whitehead  was  spinning,  and  with  my 


AN   OLD   MAID'S   STOKT.  339 

heart  drawing  strangely  into  itself  took  the  banished  book 
from  its  place  of  concealment,  quite  careless  of  what  Emeline 
Barker  might  think  of  me. 

I  felt  dissatisfied  and  unhappy.  I  knew  not  why  ;  the 
shadow  of  an  unseen  sorrow  had  fallen  over  me,  and  I  could 
not  escape  it — in  truth,  I  did  not  try.  If  I  had  taken  a  few 
steps  I  should  have  found  the  sunshine,  but  I  did  not,  and  the 
vague  discomfort  took  a  more  definite  shape. 

I  lifted  the  book  to  conceal  my  face,  which  it  seemed  to  me 
must  reflect  my  unhappy  mind,  but  I  did  not  read  any  more 
than  before.  Another  book  was  opened  which  seemed  to  me 
the  Book  of  Fate,  and  to  be  illustrated  with  one  picture — 
that  of  an  unloved  old  maid.  We  might  be  made  wiser  some- 
times, perhaps,  if  it  were  permitted  us  to  see  ourselves 
as  others  see  us,  but  we  should  rarely  be  made  more  com- 
fortable. 

There  were  whispers  and  laughter,  and  laughter  and  whis- 
pers, on  the  porch,  but  the  rumble  of  the  wheel  so  drowned 
the  voices  that  for  some  time  I  heard  not  one  word  ;  but  the 
first  that  reached  me  confirmed  my  feeling — myself  was  the 
subject  of  conversation. 

"  I  should  have  thought  they  would  have  asked  her,"  said 
Jane,  half  piteously,  and  turning  her  wheel  slowly  as  she 
spoke,  but  not  spinning  any  more.  After  a  moment  she  con- 
tinued," suppose,  Em,  you  take  it  upon  yourself  to  invite  her." 

"  Fie  !"  exclaimed  Emeline,  "  if  I  were  an  old  maid,  I 
should  not  expect  to  be  invited  to  young  parties.  Let  old 
folks  go  with  old  folks,  I  say  ;  and  I  am  sure  we  would  not  be 
mad  if  all  the  old  maids  in  the  county  should  make  a  frolic 
and  leave  us  out,  would  we,  Jenny  ?" 


340  AN  OLD  MAID'S  STORY. 

"  Why  no,"  replied  Jane  ;  "  but  theii  this  seems  like  an- 
other case,  and  I  can't  help  liking  Miss  " 

"So  do  I  like  her  well  enough  in  her  way,"  said  Emeline, 
"  but  I  would  not  like  her  at  a  party  of  young  folks.  She  must 
be  as  old  as  the  hills,  and  the  dear  knows  she  has  no  beauty  to 
recommend  her." 

"Oh,  she  is  not  so  very  old — past  getting  married  to  be  sure, 
or  being  cared  for  in  that  way,  but  she  could  help  sew,  yon 
know,  and  be  amused  by  our  fun  in  the  evening.  Suppose  wo 
ask  her  to  go  with  us  ?" 

"  I  tell  you  she  would  be  in  the  way,"  persisted  Emeline, 
"  and  I  suppose  if  Mrs.  Nichols  had  cared  to  have  her  she 
would  have  invited  her." 

"  Perhaps  she  forgot  it,"  insisted  Jenny. 

"  No,  she  didn't,"  replied  Emeline.  "  Didn't  I  hear  her  talk- 
ing all  about  who  she  wanted  and  who  she  did  not,  and  who 

she  felt  obliged  to  ask  ;  and  she  said  if  she  asked  Miss 

there  were  two  or  three  others  a  good  deal  older  and  less  de- 
sirable that  would  think  themselves  entitled  to  invitations,  and 
she  must  stop  somewhere,  and  on  the  whole  might  better  not 
begin." 

"  Well,  then,  you  tell  her,"  pleaded  Jane,  evidently  receiv- 
ing, aud  sorry  to  receive,  the  stubborn  facts. 

When  I  became  aware  that  I  was  the  "  old  maid,"  so  compas- 
sionated aud  dreaded,  I  was  as  one  stunned  by  some  dreadful 
blow.  I  felt  it  due  to  myself  to  remove  from  where  I  sat,  but  I 
had  no  strength  to  go  ;  I  seemed  not  to  be  myself.  I  saw  my- 
self by  the  new  light  whereby  other  people  saw  me.  I  began  to 
count  up  my  years.  I  was  twenty-five  the  May  past,  but  my 
life  had  been  entirely  confined  to  the  old  homestead,  and  no 


AN    OLD   MAID'S   STOEY.  341 

special,  peculiarly  interesting,  or  peculiarly  sorrowful  events 
had  broken  its  monotony,  so  that  I  found  it  hard  to  realize  the 
truth.  I  was  young  in  knowledge — young  in  experience,  and 
one  year  had  been  drawn  into  another  without  the  visible  sepa- 
ration of  even  a  New  Year's  dinner.  I  had  never  thought  of 
dividing  myself  from  the  younger  people  of  the  neighborhood, 
and  till  now  I  had  never  suspected  that  they  desired  to  divide 
themselves  from  me.  Directly  Jenny  sliped  the  bands,  set  by 
her  wheel,  and  whispering  and  laughing  the  two  girls  came 
down  and  essayed  to  make  some  explanation  which  should  not 
be  wholly  false,  and  yet  soften  the  truth.  Emeline  was  to  re- 
main a  little  while  and  assist  Jenny,  after  which  the  two  were 
to  go  together  to  Mrs.  Nichols'  to  help  with  some  sewing  she 
was  busy  about. 

So  the  old  mare  was  led  into  the  door-yard,  Emeline  hung 
her  gay  hat  on  a  low  limb  of  the  cherry-tree,  and  tying  on  one 
of  Jenny's  aprons  the  happy  pair  set  busily  to  work. 

My  task  was  much  harder  than  theirs,  for  I  must  keep  close 
the  misery  that  was  in  my  heart,  and  not  suffer  one  single  pang 
to  break  the  expression  of  quietude  in  my  face.  The  hat 
swinging  gaily  in  the  wind — the  laughter  of  the  girls,  smoth- 
ered away  from  my  participation,  seemed  like  injuries  to  my 
insulted  sorrow.  I  could  have  lifted  myself  above  hatred. 
Against  a  false  accusation  I  could  have  proudly  defended  my- 
self, but  my  crime  was  simply  that  of  being  an  old  maid,  whom 
nobody  cared  to  see,  and  against  that  there  was  nothing  I 
could  interpose.  For  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  felt  a  sort  of 
solemn  satisfaction  in  the  white  and  dying  roses,  and  in  the 
yellow  leaves  that  fell  from  the  cherry-tree  over  my  head  and 
into  my  lap. 


342  AN  OLD  MAID'S  STORY. 

Sometimes,  when  the  girls  came  near  me,  they  would  lift  up 
their  voices  as  if  in  continuance  of  a  conversation  previously 
going  forward,  but  I  understood  very  well  that  these  clear- 
toned  episodes  were  put  in  for  the  occasion. 

When  the  heart  is  light  the  hands  are  nimble,  and  the  work 
was  soon  done,  and  Jenny  ready  to  make  her  toilet — a  task  for 
which  a  country  girl,  at  the  time  and  place  I  write  of,  would 
have  been  ashamed  to  require  more  than  ten  minutes.  The 
shadow  of  the  cherry-tree  was  stretching  far  to  the  east  when 
the  old  mare,  quite  used  to  "  carry  double,"  was  led  to  the  fence- 
side,  and  Emeline  and  Jane  mounted  and  rode  away. 

I  put  my  hands  before  my  face  when  they  were  gone,  but  I 
did  not  cry.  It  was  a  hard,  withered  feeling  in  my  heart, 
that  tears  could  not  wash  away.  In  all  the  world  I  could  see 
no  green  and  dewy  ground.  There  was  nothing  I  could  do — 
nothing  I  could  undo.  There  was  no  one  I  blamed,  no  special 
act  for  whch  I  blamed  myself,  unless  it  were  for  having  been 
born.  The  sun  went  down  under  a  black  bank  of  clouds,  and 
the  winds  came  up  and  began  to  tell  the  leaves  about  a  com- 
ing storm. 

Pattering  fast  through  the  dust  a  little  boy  passed  the  gate, 
climbed  into  the  meadow,  and  was  soon  across  the  hollow,  and 
over  the  hill.  The  men  were  very  active  now,  pitching  the 
mown  hay  into  heaps,  turning  their  heads  now  and  then  to- 
wards the  blackening  west,  and  talking  earnestly  and  loud. 
The  boy  drew  close  to  them  and  seemed  to  speak,  for  all  the 
workmen  stood  silent,  and  the  rake  dropped  from  the  hand  of 
the  foremost  and  his  head  sunk  down  almost  to  his  bosom. 
Presently  one  of  the  men  took  up  the  rake,  another  brought 
the  coat  and  hat  of  the  foremost  laborer,  who  had  been  work- 


AH   OLD   MAID'S   STORY.  343 

ing  bareheaded,  and  assisted  him  to  put  them  ou,  for  he  seem- 
ed as  one  half  dead,  and  quite  unable  to  help  himself — then  the 
little  boy  took  his  hani  and  led  him  away,  and  I  noticed  that 
he  walked  with  staggering  steps,  and  often  passed  his  hand 
across  his  eyes  as  he  went.  The  men  left  in  the  field  resumed 
work  directly,  but  though  a  deep  silence  fell  with  the  first 
shadows  I  could  not  hear  a  word,  so  lowly  they  spoke  to  one 
another.  Till  long  after  dark  they  kept  rolling  and  tumbling 
the  hay  into  heaps,  but  at  last  I  heard  them  gathering  water 
pails  and  pitchers  together,  and  soon  after  they  crossed  the 
meadow  towards  the  house — not  noiselessly,  as  they  came  gen- 
erally, but  speaking  few  words  and  the  few  in  low  and  kindly 
tones.  The  black  bank  of  clouds  had  widened  up  nearly  half 
the  sky,  and  a  blinding  flash  of  lightning  showed  me  their 
faces  as  they  drew  near  the  well  and  paused — not  so  much  be- 
cause they  wished  to  drink,  as  because  they  felt  reluctant  to 
separate  and  go  their  different  ways.  While  one  of  the  men 
lowered  the  bucket,  another  approached  me,  and  wiping  his 
sunburnt  face  with  his  red  silk  handkerchief,  said — "  One 
of  our  hands  has  had  bad  news  this  evening." 

I  felt  what  it  was  before  he  went  on  to  say,  "  his  youngest 
child  died  about  five  o'clock,  and  will  be  buried  to-morrow 
morning,  I  suppose." 

Poor,  poor  father — no  wonder  the  rake  had  fallen  from  his 
hands,  and  that  he  had  suffered  himself  to  be  led  away  like  a  lit- 
tle child.  What  anguish  must  be  the  mother's,  thought  I,  wheu 
the  sterner  and  stouter-hearted  father  so  bows  himself  down, 
and  forgets  that  there  is  anything  in  the  world  but  the  cold 
white  clay  that  is  to  be  buried  to-morrow. 

I  forgot  Mrs.  Nichols  and  the  gay  people  she  had  about 


344  AN   OLD   MAID'S    STORY. 

her  ;  forgot  that  I  had  been  forgotten,  and  remembered  only 
our  common  humanity  and  our  common  need. 

The  sky  was  black  overhead  and  the  lightning  every  few 
minutes  illuminated  the  grey  dust  before  me,  that  was  begin- 
ning to  be  dotted  with  drops  of  rain,  falling  at  intervals,  as  I 
hurried  through  the  darkness  to  the  humble  home  where  last 
year  a  babe  had  been  born,  and  where  the  last  day  it  had 
died.  Two  or  three  living  children  were  left,  and  yet  it 
seemed  as  if  all  were  gone,  the  room  was  so  still  and 
gloomy.  The  little  mouth  had  never  spoken,  and  the  little 
hands  had  never  worked  for  food  or  for  clothing,  yet  how 
poor  the  parents  felt,  having  the  precious  burden  laid  from  off 
their  bosoms. 

Close  by  the  window,  where  the  morning-glories  grew  thick, 
dressed  in  white  and  as  if  quietly  asleep,  lay  the  little  one, 
waking  not  when  the  flowers  dropped  on  its  face,  nor  when  the 
mother  called  it  by  all  the  sweetest  names  that  a  mother's 
fondness  can  shape. 

"  You  must  not  grieve — the  baby  is  better  off  than  we," 
said  a  tall  woman,  dressed  in  black,  and  she  led  the  poor 
mother  from  the  white  bed  where  it  lay.  After  some  further 
words  of  admonition  and  reproof,  she  proceeded  to  light  the 
candles  and  to  arrange  the  table  preparatory,  as  I  supposed, 
for  morning  service. 

The  rain  came  plashing  on  the  vines  at  the  window,  and  the 
mother's  grief  burst  out  afresh  as  she  thought  of  the  grave  it 
would  fall  upon  in  the  morning.  A  step  came  softly  along  the 
rainy  grass,  and  a  face  whose  calm  benignity  seemed  to  dispel 
the  darkness,  drew  my  eyes  from  the  sleeping  baby  to  itself. 
But  the  voice — there  was  in  it  such  sweetness  and  refinement — 


A3T    OLD   MAID'S    STOKT.  345 

?nch  a  mingling  of  love  and  piety,  that  I  was  blessed,  as  I  had 
never  been  blessed,  in  being  permitted  to  listen  to  it. 

I  recognized  the  visitor  for  the  village  clergyman  who  had 
lately  come  among  us,  and  whom  I  had  only  seen  once,  when 
he  gave  baptism  to  the  little  one  that  was  now  returned  to 
dust. 

I  recognized  not  only  the  form  and  features,  but  I  also  re- 
cognized, or  thought  I  did,  a  spiritual  kindred — the  desolation 
that  had  divided  me  from  the  world  an  hour  past  was  gone — 
heaven  came  down  near  to  me,  so  near  that  earth  was  filled 
with  the  reflection  of  its  glory  and  happiness. 

All  the  night  we  were  together.  There  were  few  words 
spoken.  There  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  listen  to  the  rain 
and  the  beating  of  my  heart.  There  was  nothing  to  see  but 
the  baby  on  its  white  bed,  the  dimly-burning  candle  and  the 
calm  soul-full  eyes  of  the  clergyman — now  bent  on  the  sacred 
page  before  him,  now  on  the  leaves  that  trembled  in  the  rain, 
and  now,  as  something  told  me,  for  I  scarcely  dared  look  up, 
upon  myself. 

I  wished  there  were  something  I  might  do  for  him,  but  I 
could  think  of  nothing  except  to  offer  the  rocking-chair  which 
had  been  given  me  on  my  coming,  and  which  was  all  the  luxu- 
ry the  poor  man's  house  afforded.  In  my  over-anxiety  to 
serve,  I  forgot  this  most  obvious  service  I  could  render,  and 
when  it  occurred  to  me  at  last  my  unfortunate  forgetfulness  so 
much  embarrassed  me  that  I  knew  not  how  to  speak  or  stir. 
If  there  had  been  any  noise — if  any  one  had  been  present  but 
our  two  selves — if  he  would  speak  to  me — but  as  it  was,  I 
could  not  for  a  long  while  find  courage  for  that  proffer  of  my 
simple  courtesy.  There  he  sat  silent,  as  far  from  me  as  he 

15* 


34G  AX  OLD  MAID'S  STORY. 

could  well  be,  and  as  more  time  went  by,  looking  at  mo  more 
and  more  earnestly,  I  thought.  At  last  the  steadfast  gaze  be- 
came so  painful  that  I  felt  that  any  change  would  be  relief, 
and  mastering  my  embarrassment  as  I  best  could,  I  offered  the 
rocking-chair  to  the  clergyman,  whose  name  was  Wardwell, 
with  the  energetic  haste  with  which  one  touches  the  lion  he 
would  tame. 

"  No,  my  child,"  he  said,  very  calmly,  "  you  have  most  need 
of  it." 

I  know  not  what  I  said,  but  in  some  vehement  way,  which  I 
afterwards  feared  expressed  all  I  was  most  anxious  to  conceal, 
made  my  refusal. 

He  smiled  and  accepted  the  chair,  I  thought  in  pity  of  my 
confusion,  and  rather  to  place  me  at  ease,  than  for  the  sake  of 
his  own  comfort. 

He  asked  me  directly  whether  I  had  ever  been  far  from  the 
village— a  natural  question  enough,  and  asked  doubtless  for 
the  sake  of  relieving  the  tedium  of  silence — but  I  saw  in  it  on- 
ly the  inference  of  my  rusticity  and  want  of  knowledge,  and 
replied  with  a  proud  humility  that  I  was  native  to  the  village 
— had  scarcely  been  out  of  sight  of  it,  and  had  no  knowledge 
beyond  the  common  knowledge  of  its  common  people. 

With  a  changed  expression — I  could  not  tell  whether  of 
pain  or  annoyance — Mr.  Wardwell  moved  his  position  slightly 
nearer  me,  but  the  habitual  smile  returned  presently,  and  he 
rocked  quietly  to  and  fro,  saying  only,  "  well,  well." 

There  was  nothing  in  the  tone  or  the  manner  to  give  force 
to  the  words.  They  might  indicate  that  it  was  as  well  to  live 
in  the  village  as  any  other  place.  They  might  indicate  that  he 
had  no  interest  in  the  inquiry — and  none  in  the  answer — or  it 


AN    OLD    MAID'S    STORY.  347 

might  be  that  they  expressed  the  fixedness  of  a  foregone  con- 
clusion. I  chose  to  receive  the  last  interpretation,  and  leaned 
my  head  on  the  hard  sill  of  the  open  window  to  conceal  the 
tears  with  which,  in  spite  of  myself,  my  eyes  were  slowly 
filling. 

All  the  time  the  clergyman  had  remained  silent  I  had 
longed  with  a  sincere  and  childish  simplicity  to  be  noticed  or 
spoken  to,  and  now  if  I  could  have  unsaid  the  few  words  he 
had  directly  addressed  to  me  a  tormenting  weight  would  have 
been  lifted  from  my  bosom. 

The  wet  leaves  shook  almost  in  my  face,  and  now  and  then 
some  cold  drops  plashed  on  my  head  ;  but  I  would  not  mani- 
fest any  inconvenience.  I  felt  as  if  Mr.  Wardwell  were  re- 
sponsible for  my  discomfort,  and  I  would  be  a  patient  martyr 
to  whatever  he  might  inflict. 

"My  child,  you  are  courting  danger,"  he  said,  at  last ;  "the 
chill  air  of  these  rainy  midnights  is  not  to  be  tampered  with 
by  one  of  your  susceptible  organization." 

Ah,  thought  I  to  myself,  he  is  trying  to  pour  oil  on  the 
wound  he  has  made,  but  doubtless  he  thinks  no  amount  of 
chill  rain  could  injure  me,  for  all  of  his  soft  speaking.  So  I 
affected  to  sleep,  for  I  was  ashamed  to  manifest  the  rudeness  I 
felt,  though  my  position  was  becoming  seriously  uncomfort- 
able, to  say  nothing  of  its  imprudence.  My  heart  trembled, 
audibly,  I  feared,  when  Mr.  Wardwell  approached,  and  stoop- 
ing over  me,  longer  I  thought  than  need  were,  softly  let  down 
the  window.  I  would  have  thanked  him,  but  to  do  so  would 
have  been  to  betray  my  ill-nature,  which  I  was  now  repentant, 
and  ashamed  of.  He  passed  his  hand  over  my  wet  hair,  and 
afterwards  brought  the  cushion  of  the  rocking-chair  and  placed 


348  AK  OLD  MAID'S  STORY. 

it  stealthily  beneath  my  head.  Soothed  from  my  sorrow,  and 
unused  to  watching,  I  was  presently  fast  asleep.  I  dreamed  I 
was  at  home,  and  that  some  one  was  walking  across  and 
across  my  chamber,  and  so  close  to  my  bedside  that  I  felt  a 
distinct  fear.  So  strong  was  the  impression  I  could  not  rid 
myself  of  it,  even  when,  fully  conscious,  I  unclosed  my  eyes 
and  saw  the  still  baby  before  me,  and  the  clergyman  appar- 
ently dozing  in  his  chair.  Was  it  he  who  had  been  walking 
so  near  me,  in  forgetfulness  of  me  and  simply  to  relieve  the 
monotony  of  the  time  ?  Yes,  said  probability,  even  before  my 
eyes  fell  upon  a  handkerchief  of  white  cambric,  lying  almost 
at  my  feet,  and  which  I  was  quite  sure  was  not  there  when  I 
took  my  seat  at  the  window. 

I  took  it  up,  partly  from  curiosity,  partly  for  the  want  of 
other  occupation,  examined  the  flowers  in  the  border,  and 
read  and  re-read  the  initial  letters,  worked  in  black  in  one 
corner — C.  D.  W.  I  fancied  the  letters  had  been  wrought  by 
a  female  hand,  and  with  a  feeling  strangely  akin  to  jealousy, 
and  which  I  should  have  blushed  to  own,  tossed  the  handker- 
chief on  the  table  and  took  my  own  from  my  pocket,  more 
aware  of  its  coarseness  and  plainness  than  I  had  ever  been 
till  then.  It  was  as  white  as  snow,  neatly  folded,  and  smell- 
ing of  rose-leaves  ;  but  for  all  that  I  felt  keenly  how  badly  it 
contrasted  with  that  of  the  clergyman. 

I  wished  he  would  wake,  if  he  were  indeed  asleep — move 
ever  so  slightly,  look  up,  or  speak  one  word,  no  matter  what  ; 
but  for  all  my  wishing  he  sat  there  just  the  same — his  eyes 
closed,  and  his  placid  face  turned  more  to  the  wall  than  to  me. 

From  the  roost  near  by,  and  from  across  the  neighboring 
hills,  sounded  the  lusty  crowing — it  might  be  midnight  or  day- 


AN   OLD   MAID'S    STORY.  349 

break  ;  I  could  not  tell  which,  for  the  night  had  been  to  me 
unlike  any  other  night.  I  arose  softly,  and  taking  the  candle 
which  burned  dimly  now,  held  it  before  the  white  face  of  the 
skeleton  of  a  clock,  to  tell  the  hour,  but  the  clock  had  been 
forgotten  and  was  "  run  down." 

I  crossed  the  room  on  tiptoe  and  reseated  myself  without 
noise,  but  had  scarcely  done  so  when  Mr.  Wardwell,  evidently 
aware  of  my  movements  and  wishes,  took  from  his  vest  an  ele- 
gant watch  and  named  the  time,  which  was  but  half  an  hour 
after  midnight.  I  sighed,  for  I  felt  as  if  the  morning  would 
never  come. 

"  The  time  is  heavy  to  you,  my  dear  child,"  he  replied,  as 
if  in  answer  to  my  sigh,  and  replacing  the  cushion,  he  offered 
me  the  easy-chair,  blaming  himself  for  having  deprived  me  of 
it  so  selfishly  and  so  long — and  professing  to  be  quite  re- 
freshed by  the  sleep  which  I  suspected  he  had  not  taken. 

I  tried  to  decline,  for  in  my  heart  I  wished  him  to  have  the 
best  chair,  but  when  he  took  my  hand  with  what  I  felt  to  be 
rather  gallantry  than  paternal  solicitude,  I  could  no  longer  re- 
fuse, and  in  affectation  of  a  quietude  I  did  not  feel,  took  up 
the  hymn-book  which  lay  at  hand,  and  bent  my  eyes  on  the 
words  I  did  not  read. 

"  Will  you  read  the  poem  that  interests  you  ?"  asked  Mr. 
Wardwell,  coming  near,  and  turning  his  bright,  blessed  face 
full  upon  me. 

I  trembled,  for  it  seemed  to  me  that  my  heart  was  open  be- 
fore my  companion,  and  even  if  it  were  not  I  knew  my  cheek 
was  playing  the  tell-tale,  but  in  some  way  I  stammered  an  an- 
Bwer  to  the  most  obvious  sense  of  the  words,  and  replied  that 
it  was  the  hymn-book  I  held. 


350  Aisr  OLD  MAID'S  STOKY. 

"  I  know  it,"  replied  my  pleasing  tormentor  ;  "  hut  it  is  a 
poem  you  are  reading  for  all  that." 

I  said  there  were  some  hymns  which  were  also  most  ennob- 
ling and  beautiful  poetry,  and  I  went  on  to  instance  a  few 
which  I  regarded  as  such.  He  seemed  not  to  hear  my 
words,  but  said,  rather  as  if  musing  aloud  than  speaking 
to  me, — 

"  Yes,  yes,  my  dear  child," — (he  said  dear  child  now,  and 
not  child  as  at  first) — "  at  your  time  of  life  there  are  many 
sweet  poems  for  the  heart  to  read,  which  it  does  read  without 
the  aid  of  books." 

He  looked  on  me  as  he  spoke  with  a  sort  of  sorrowful  com- 
passion, I  thought,  and  yet  there  was  something  tenderer  and 
deeper  than  compassion,  which  I  could  not  define. 

He  was  greatly  my  senior,  but  it  was  not  a  filial  feeling  that 
caused  me  to  say,  I  was  past  the  time  when  frivolous  fancy 
most  readily  turns  evanescent  things  to  poetry,  and  I  men- 
tioned myself  as  twenty-six  the  May  coming,  and  not  twenty- 
five  the  May  past,  as  most  women  would  have  done. 

"  To  me  that  seems  very  young  1"  replied  my  companion, 
solemnly,  "  I  am" —  he  hesitated,  and  went  on  hurriedly  and 
confusedly  I  thought,  "  I  am  much  older  than  you  are." 

He  went  away  from  me  as  he  spoke,  and  passed  his  hand 
along  his  deeply-lined  forehead  and  whitening  hair,  as  if  in  con- 
templation of  them. 

I  could  not  bear  the  solemn  gladness  that  came  like  a  soft 
shadow  over  the  dewier  glow  that  had  lighted  his  face  awhile 
past,  and  hastened  to  say,  though  I  had  never  thought  of  it 
before,  that  the  best  experience  and  the  truest  poetry  of  life 
should  come  to  us  in  the  full  ripeness  of  years.  He  shook  his 


AN   OLD   MAID'S   STORY.  351 

head  doubtfully,  smiled  the  old  benignant  smile,  as  he  re- 
plied : 

"  It  is  quite  natural,  my  dear  child,  that  you  should  think  so." 

I  had  no  courage  to  say  more,  especially  as  his  thoughts 
seemed  to  return  to  their  more  habitual  channels  ;  but  oh,  how 
much  I  wished  he  could  feel  this  life  as  richly  worth  living  as 
I  did. 

He  raised  the  sash,  and  leaned  his  head  close  to  the  wet 
vines,  though  he  had  reproved  me  for  doing  the  same  thing, 
and  before  I  could  find  courage  to  remind  him  of  it,  or  to  say 
anything,  he  was  fast  asleep. 

I  recalled  every  word  I  had  spoken,  and  conscious  of  an 
awakening  interest  that  I  had  never  before  experienced  for 
man  or  woman,  I  thought  I  had  betrayed  it,  and  the  betrayal 
had  produced  the  sleepy  indifference,  which,  in  spite  of  myself, 
mortified  me  to  the  quick.  I  read  the  hymn-book  till  I  was 
weary  of  hymns  ;  and  afterwards  thought  till  I  was  weary  of 
thinking,  then  read  again,  and  at  last,  to  keep  the  place  which 
I  had  no  interest  in  keeping,  I  placed  my  handkerchief  between 
the  leaves  of  the  book,  and  so  turning  my  face  as  to  see  just 
that  part  of  the  wall  which  Mr.  Wardwell  had  looked  at  an 
hour  previously,  I  forgot  him  and  myself  and  all  things. 

It  was  not  the  noise  of  the  rain  that  woke  me — nor  the 
crowing  of  the  morning  cocks,  nor  the  sun's  yellow  light  that 
struggled  through  the  room,  nor  yet  the  mother  calling  in  her 
renewed  anguish  to  the  baby  that  smiled  not  for  all  her  call- 
ing, nor  lifted  its  little  hands  to  the  bosom  that  bent  above  it 
in  such  loving  and  terrible  despair — it  seemed  to  me  it  was 
none  of  these,  but  a  torturous  premonition  of  solitude  and 
desolation. 


352  AN  OLD  MAID'S  STORY. 

Mr.  Wardwell  was  gone,  and  the  night  was  gone — but  there 
was  a  pleasant  voice  in  ray  ear,  and  a  serene  smile,  kindling 
now  and  then  in  transient  enthusiasm,  whichever  way  I  turned. 

0  night  of  solemn  joy,  0  humble  room,  made  sacred  by  the 
presence  of  death — 0  dream,  whose  sweet  beginning  promised 
so  beautiful  a  close,  how  often  have  I  gone  back  to  you,  and 
hewed  out  cisterns  that  I  knew  must  break  ! 

Surely  in  the  mysterious  providences  that  wrap  themselves 
around  us  and  which  to  our  weak  apprehensions  seem  so  dark 
and  so  hard,  there  are  true  and  good  meanings,  if  we  could 
but  find  them  out. 

Help  us  to  be  patient,  oh,  our  Father,  and  give  us  the  trust- 
ing hearts  of  little  children,  and  the  faith  that  mounts  higher 
and  brighter  than  the  fire. 

In  the  southern  suburb  of  the  village,  and  in  sight  of  my 
own  chamber  window,  is  a  low,  gloomy  stone  church,  which 
stood  there  before  I  was  born,  and  which  had  scarcely 
changed  any  within  my  remembrance.  All  the  long  summer 
afternoons  I  used  to  sit  at  this  window,  looking  up  often  from 
my  sewing  or  my  book,  and  always  in  one  direction — that  of 
the  dark  little  church.  I  could  see  the  oak  trees  that  grew  in 
different  parts  of  the  churchyard,  and  made  deep  shadows 
over  the  green  mounds  below,  and  it  pleased  me  not  a  little  to 
think  Mr.  Wardwell  might  be  looking  on  them  at  the  same 
moment  with  myself,  for  the  parsonage,  or  "preacher's  house," 
as  it  was  called,  stood  in  the  same  inclosure  with  the  church 
building. 

1  could  not  see  the  parsonage  itself,  but  I  could  see  the 
smoke  drifting  from  its  chimneys,  and  know  when  a  fire  was 
being  made,  and  could  guess  at  the  probable  work  that  was 


AN    OLD   MAID'S   STOBT.  353 

going  on  indoors — whether  dinner  or  tea,  or  whether  it  were 
the  day  for  scrubbing  or  for  baking,  for  I  took  the  liveliest  in- 
terest in  such  faint  and  far-away  observations  of  Mr.  Ward- 
well's  household  affairs,  as  I  was  able  to  make.  Sometimes  I 
would  see  a  white  fluttering  among  the  trees,  and  know  it  had 
been  washing  day  at  the  preacher's  house,  aud  then  I  would 
imagine  the  discomfort  that  had  reigned  in  the  kitchen  all  day, 
and  the  scouring  of  the  ash  floor,  and  the  brightening  of  the 
hearth,  that  came  afterward.  I  never  made  my  seat  under  the 
grape-covered  cherry  tree,  after  the  day  that  solemnized  my 
destiny  with  the  appellation  of  "  old  maid,"  and  the  evening' 
that  saw  our  first  hand  led  away. 

The  night  that  followed  had  opened  a  new  page  in  my  life — 
a  page  where  I  saw  my  future  reflected  in  colors  brighter 
than  my  spring  flowers,  that  were  all  dead  now.  I  did  not 
regret  them.  Often  came  Emeline  and  talked  and  laughed 
with  Jenny  as  she  spun  on  the  porch,  and  I  praised  the  pink 
and  blue  dresses  she  wore,  and  the  roses  that  trimmed  her  hat, 
and  said  I  was  too  old  for  pink  dresses  and  roses,  without  a 
sigh  on  my  lips,  or  a  pang  in  my  heart.  I  lived  in  a  world  of 
my  own  now  ;  on  Sunday  eve  we  went  to  church  together, 
and  yet  not  to  the  same  church — we  sat  in  the  same  pew,  but 
the  face  of  the  preacher  turned  not  to  the  faces  of  my  com- 
panions as  it  sometimes  turned  to  mine,  and  for  me  there  were 
meanings  in  his  words  which  they  could  not  see  nor  feel. 

When  he  spoke  of  the  great  hereafter,  when  our  souls  that 
had  crossed  their  mates,  perhaps,  and  perhaps  left  them  be- 
hind or  gone  unconsciously  before  them — dissatisfied  and 
longing  and  faltering  all  the  time,  and  of  the  deep  of  joy 
they  would  enter  into,  on  recognizing  fully  and  freely  the 


354  AN  OLD  MAID'S  STOEY. 

other  self,  which,  in  this  world,  had  been  so  poorly  and  vague- 
ly comprehended,  if  at  all — what  delicious  tremor,  half  fear 
and  half  fervor,  thrilled  all  my  being,  and  made  me  feel  that 
the  dust  of  time  and  the  barriers  of  circumstance — the  dreary 
pain  of  a  life  separated  from  all  others — death  itself — all  were 
nothing  but  shadows  passing  between  me  and  the  eternal  sun- 
shine of  love.  I  could  afford  to  wait — I  could  afford  to  be 
patient  under  ray  burdens  and  to  go  straight  forward  through 
all  hard  fates  and  fortunes,  assured  that  I  should  know  and  be 
known  at  last,  love  and  be  loved  in  the  fullness  of  a  blessed- 
ness, which,  even  here,  mixed  with  bitterness  as  it  is,  is  the 
sweetest  of  all.  What  was  it  to  me  that  my  hair  was  black, 
and  my  step  firm,  while  his  hair  to  whoji  I  listened  so  reveren- 
tially was  white,  and  his  step  slow,  if  not  feeble.  What  was 
it  that  he  had  more  wisdom,  and  more  experience  than  I,  and 
what  was  it  that  he  never  said,  "  you  are  faintly  recognized, 
and  I  see  a  germ  close-folded,  which  in  the  mysterious  processes 
of  God's  providence  may  unfold  a  great  white  flower."  We 
had  but  crossed  each  other  in  the  long  journey,  and  I  was 
satisfied,  for  I  felt  that  in  our  traversing  up  the  ages,  we 
should  meet  again. 

How  sweet  the  singing  of  the  evening  and  the  morning  service 
used  to  be.  Our  voices  met  and  mingled  then,  and  in  the 
same  breath  and  to  the  same  tune  we  praised  the  Lord,  for 
his  mercy,  which  endureth  forever. 

One  afternoon  Eraeline  and  Jenny  teased  me  to  join  them 
on  the  porch— they  pitied  me,  perhaps,  shut  np  iu  the  dim  old 
chamber,  as  ^ve  often  pity  those  who  are  most  to  be  envied, 
and  finding  they  would  not  leave  me  to  my  own  thoughts,  I 
allowed  myself  to  be  drawn  from  my  favorite  position 


AN  OLD  MAID'S  STORT.  355 

Eineline  was  cutting  some  handkerchiefs  from  a  piece  of 
linen,  and  she  asked  me  for  one  of  mine  as  a  measure.  I 
opened  a  drawer  where  my  nicest  things  were,  sprinkled  over 
with  dried  rose-leaves,  and  took  up  a  white  apron  with  a  ruffled 
border,  which  I  had  worn  the  most  memorable  night  of  my  life, 
and  folded  away  just  as  I  wore  it — I  took  it  up,  thinking  of 
the  night,  drew  a  handkerchief  from  the  pocket  and  laid  it 
across  the  lap  of  Emeline. 

What  laughter  and  clapping  of  hands  and  accusations  of 
blushes  followed,  and  true  enough,  the  blushes  made  red  con- 
fusion in  my  face  when  Emeline  held  up,  not  my  own  coarse, 
plain  handkerchief,  but  a  fine  one  with  a  deep  purple  border, 
and  marked  with  the  initial  letters  of  Mr.  Wardwell's  name. 

In  vain  I  denied  all  knowledge  of  how  I  came  by  it  ;  they 
were  merrily  incredulous,  and  asserted  that  if  I  knew  nothing 
of  the  handkerchief  I  of  course  cared  nothing  for  it — they 
would  keep  it  and  return  it  to  the  owner,  who  had  no  doubt 
dropped  it  by  accident— just  as  I  had  taken  it  up. 

I  said  it  must  be  so,  and  spoke  of  the  watch  we  had  kept  to- 
gether, which  gave  the  utmost  probability  to  their  suggestion, 
und  which  involved  me  in  a  serious  dilemma.  In  the  early 
twilight,  they  said  we  would  walk  together  to  the  preacher's 
house — return  him  the  lost  handkerchief,  and  in  return  for  our 
•good  office  receive  some  of  the  red  pears  that  grew  at  his 
door. 

I  could  not  bear  that  Mr:  Wardwell  should  be  mentioned  in 
the  same  sentence  with  red  pears — just  as  I  would  have  men- 
tioned any  other  person,  and  yet  for  the  world  I  would  not 
have  had  them  see  him  as  I  saw  him.  I  could  not  bear  the 
thought  of  parting  with  my  treasure  which  I  had  unconsciously 


356  AN  OLD  MAID'S  STORY. 

possessed  so  long  ;  I  would  speedily  have  folded  it  just  as  I 
found  it  and  as  he  had  folded  it,  and  replacing  it  in  the  pocket 
of  my  apron,  have  kept  it  forever  shut  in  the  drawer  among 
the  rose-leaves. 

But  how  to  evade  the  plan  of  my  young  friends  without  be- 
traying my  own  secret  I  could  not  discover.  Having  forced 
myself  to  comply,  for  they  insisted  that  they  would  go  with- 
out me  if  not  with  me,  I  tried  to  reconcile  myself  by  the  light 
of  judgment  and  the  cold  probabilities  of  the  case.  Between 
dreaming  and  waking  I  must  have  taken  up  the  handkerchief 
instead  of  my  own.  But  convinced  against  my  will,  I  was 
of  the  same  opinion  still.  I  remembered  very  distinctly  plac- 
ing the  handkerchief  on  the  table  before  me,  and  of  seeing  it 
there  when  I  placed  my  own  between  the  leaves  of  my  hymn- 
book — and  I  remembered  too,  right  well,  that  Mr.  Wardwell 
was  gone  when  I  awoke — how  then  could  the  accident  have 
occurred  ?  And  yet,  if  not  by  accident,  how  came  I  by  the 
handkerchief  ?  I  could  not  tell,  but  one  thing  I  was  forced  to 
do,  to  give  it  back.  If  it  must  be  done,  it  should  not  be  the 
hand  of  Emeline  or  of  Jenny  that  did  it,  but  my  own.  When 
it  was  time  to  go  I  folded  my  treasure  neatly,  and  hid  it  under 
my  shawl  and  next  my  heart.  It  was  autumn  now  and  there 
were  no  flowers  but  the  few  deep  red  ones  that  were  left  on 
the  rose  of  Sharon  that  grew  by  my  window.  I  gathered  a 
green  spray  that  held  two  bright  ones,  and  hiding  my  heart  as 
carefully  as  I  did  my  treasure,  I  seemed  to  listen  to  what  my 
young  friends  said  as  we  went  along. 

A  little  way  from  the  door,  in  a  rustic  seat,  beneath  the 
boughs  of  an  apple-tree  Mr.  Wardwell  sat  reading — as  he 
looked  up,  the  expression  of  a  young  and  happy  heart  passed 


AN   OLD   MAID'S   STOBY.  357 

across  his  face,  and  gave  way  to  a  more  sober  and  paternal 
one.  He  laid  the  book  he  had  been  reading  in  the  rustic  chair 
and  came  forward  to  meet  and  welcome  us.  He  called  me 
dear  child  again  and  laid  his  hand  upon  my  head  with  a 
solemn  and  tender  pressure,  that  seemed  to  me  at  once  a 
promise  and  a  benediction. 

I  said  why  we  were  come,  and  in  my  confusion  offered  the 
handkerchief  with  the  hand  that  held  the  flowers.  He  smiled 
sadly  as  we  sometimes  do  when  we  are  misunderstood,  and 
pointing  my  friends  to  the  pears  that  were  lying  red  on  the 
ground,  he  took  the  handkerchief,  the  flowers  and  the  hand 
that  held  them  in  both  his  own,  and  for  a  moment  pressed 
them  close  to  his  bosom.  When  my  hand  was  restored  to  me 
the  handkerchief  was  in  it,  but  not  the  flowers. 

"  I  want  the  roses,"  he  said,  "  and  will  buy  them  with  the 
handkerchief,  for  we  must  pay  for  our  pleasures  whether  we 
will  or  no." 

I  knew  not  how  to  understand  him,  and  was  yet  holding  my 
treasure  timidly  forth,  when,  seeing  my  friends  approach,  he 
put  my  hand  softly  back,  and  I  hastened  to  conceal  it  as  be- 
fore— next  my  heart.  The  youthful  expression,  that  dewy- 
rose-look  of  summer  and  sunshine,  came  out  in  his  face  again 
— my  heart  had  spoken  to  his  heart,  and  we  felt  that  we  were 
assuredly  bound  to  the  same  haven. 

The  aprons  of  my  young  friends  were  full  of  red  pears,  and 
their  faces  beaming  with  pleasure,  and  I,  whom  they  compas- 
sionated as  an  old  maid,  hid  my  sacred  joy  deep  in  my  bosom, 
and  turned  aside  that  their  frivolous  and  frolicsome  mirth 
might  not  mar  it.  Involuntarily  I  turned  towards  the  rustic 
chair,  and  with  an  interest  which  I  felt  in  everything  belong- 


358  AN  OLD  MAID'S  STORT. 

ing  to  Mr.  Wardwell,  opened  the  book  he  had  left  there.  It 
was  the  well-remembered  hymn-book,  and  my  handkerchief 
was  keeping  the  place  of  the  hymn  I  had  read  so  often  on  the 
most  memorable  of  the  nights  of  my  life.  How  happy  I  was, 
and  what  dreams  I  dreamed  after  that.  The  blessed  handker- 
chief is  shut  up  with  rose-leaves  in  my  drawer,  but  the  giver 
I  never  spoke  with  but  once  again. 

It  was  years  after  I  had  learned  that  my  treasure  was  not 
an  accident,  and  when  Jenny  and  Emeline  were  each  the  hap- 
py mother  of  more  than  one  pretty  baby — still  liking  me  a 
little,  and  pitying  me  a  great  deal  because  I  was  an  old  maid, 
when  one  snowy  night,  the  old  woman,  who  kept  house  at  the 
parsonage,  came  for  me.  I  must  make  haste,  she  said,  for 
good  Mr.  Wardwell  had  been  that  day  seized  with  a  fit,  and 
seemed  to  be  slowly  dying.  It  was  true,  as  she  said,  he  seem- 
ed but  to  wait  for  me.  The  Bible  and  hymn-book  were  by  his 
bedside  ;  the  plain  linen  handkerchief  was  between  the  leaves 
of  the  latter,  and  placing  his  hand  on  it,  he  whispered — 

"  Put  this  over  my  face  when  I  am  dead  and  the  flowers" — 

He  could  not  say  more,  but  I  understood  him  and  softly 
placing  my  hand  on  the  heart  where  the  life-tide  was  ebbing, 
I  bent  my  face  down  close  and  kissed  the  cheek  that  was  al- 
ready moistening  with  death-dew.  All  the  face  brightened 
with  that  sweet,  sweet  expression  that  was  manhood  and 
angelhood  at  once — then  came  the  terrible  shadow,  and  the 
eyes  that  had  known  me,  knew  me  no  more — the  lips  gave  up 
their  color,  but  the  habitual  smile  fixed  itself  in  more  than 
mortal  beauty.  As  I  unfolded  the  handkerchief  two  roses  fell 
from  it,  which  we  buried  with  him. 

His  grave  is  at  the  south  of  the  old  church,  and  a  rose-tree, 


AST   OLD   MAID'S   STOET.  359 

grown  from  the  slip  of  the  one  at  my  window,  blooms  at  his 
head.  Nothing  now  would  tempt  me  away  from  the  hills  I 
was  born  among — from  the  old  grey  church,  and  the  grave 
near  which  I  hope  to  be  buried. 

"  Come  see  my  treasure  ;"  and  Abbie  Morrison  (for  that 
was  the  story-teller's  name)  unlocked  the  drawer,  where,  fold- 
ed among  rose  leaves,  almost  scentless  now,  was  the  handker- 
chief with  dark  border,  and  marked  with  the  initials,  C.  D.  W. 

To  her  neighbors  Abbie  Morrison  is  only  an  old  maid  in 
whose  praise  there  is  not  much  to  be  said.  If  any  one  is  sick 
she  is  sent  for,  but  in  seasons  of  joy  nobody  has  a  thought  of 
her.  What  does  she  know  of  pleasure  ?  they  say,  or  what 
does  she  care  for  anything  but  singing  in  the  church  and  cut- 
ting the  weeds  from  the  graveyard  ? 

The  children  love  her  sweet  voice,  and  stop  on  the  way  to 
school  if  shs  chances  to  sing  in  the  garden,  and,  as  she  gives 
them  flowers,  wonder  why  their  sisters  call  her  old  and  ugly. 
It  may  be  that  angels  wonder  too. 


THE    END. 


UCSB   LIBRARY. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


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